


Common Ground

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Sansa’s got a new job, a new city, a new place... and a new neighbor.  She was hoping for someone with whom she had lots in common, but fate had other plans.Happy birthday vanillacoconuts!





	1. Sansa is NOT an accountant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillacoconuts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacoconuts/gifts).



> If I did the math correctly (and I’m not at all certain that I did) then it is now officially vanillacoconuts’s birthday. Happy Birthday VC!

 

“Hi! I’m Sansa!  I’m your new neigh... no, that’s way too eager.”

Sansa dropped her head to her hand with an exasperated sigh, then confidently met the eyes of her reflection and tried again.

“Hello. I’m Ms. Stark, your new neighbor.  Perhaps you didn’t realize that... God, that’s pretentious as hell.” 

She really did not have time for this, not since it was only the second week of her new job and she prided herself on being at her desk before anyone else. But that _dog._ A conversation about the animal was long overdue and she’d spent many valuable minutes this morning practicing.  Too many valuable minutes.  She needed to get going and still needed to stop by her neighbor’s apartment for a much needed and much dreaded discussion.

Three weeks ago she’d moved into this old four-story ex-warehouse, charmed by the river-front location, the excellent layout, and the fact that there was exactly one apartment per floor to maximize privacy. Everything was perfect... at first.  Then the nocturnal howling had started, drifting down from the fourth floor and piercing the blissful silence, and she had spent three long loud nights hoping that someone _else_ would complain to the offender.  It dawned on her later that no one else was going to say anything because she was the only one even _affected_ by the canine cacophony and would therefore have to handle this on her own.  Like an adult.  Which no doubt meant in person.  So instead of hitting the button for Ground, she took the elevator up one floor to 1132-D.

_I am a strong and confident woman and I can handle anything._

She didn’t know why this made her so nervous, anyway. It wasn’t as if she were in the wrong here, and surely her neighbor knew that, surely whoever it was would be amenable to her request.  And hey, maybe her neighbor was someone like her, some young woman, new to the city, and this would be the start of a beautiful friendship.  They’d have slumber parties and share recipes and years from now when they were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings they would laugh about how they met. 

 _‘Hello, I’m Sansa, your new neighbor,’_ she chanted in her head, stepping off the elevator and onto the tiny landing and knocking briskly on the door.  Nothing to fear, just a simple conversation between neighbors.   She drew herself up tall and smiled her most confident smile, just in time for the door to be forcefully yanked open.

“Howdy!” she chirruped before she could stop herself, but the awkward greeting ended abruptly with an ‘eep’ when she laid eyes on her new neighbor.

It was a man- a monstrously huge man, filling the entire opening and staring down at her with a dark and glowery expression, eyes that glittered silver behind narrowed lids. That glare alone was enough to stop her heart, but it wasn’t the worst of it, not even close to the worst of it.  That honor went to the slick pink scars covering the entire left side of his face, lips and lids and brows blurred by some unimaginable horror.  Long dark hair framed that twisted scowl, barely concealing the scars but doing nothing to diminish the anger.  At her.  For some reason. 

This was the kind of man her parents had warned her about, a mythical monster Sansa had always chalked up to the active imagination of a worried mother.   Except here he was, enormous and scarred and ready to hurt her and... oh, she was being unkind.  It wasn’t his fault he was so disfigured, she _knew_ that, and her gawking wasn’t helping things at all.  She should say something right now to get past the awkward little hurdle.

She couldn’t; she’d been sucked into silent inaction and could do nothing but stare, certain that looking away would be worse, so much worse. But then she blinked and softened when a warm muzzle brushed against her fingers and she glanced down to the huge black beast insistently pushing against her legs, begging for attention.  Oh.  This was the dog in question, the one whose howls kept her from sleeping so many nights of the week.  He sure was a friendly fella... unlike his owner, who was still glaring at her.

“You’re late,” the man snapped, a hiss that ended like the crack of a whip. Gods, even his voice was awful, but before she could register such a thought he disappeared into the gloomy recesses of his apartment, leaving the door open so she could follow.  Which she did, of course, followed his implied orders, closing the door behind her and meeting him at a table in a tiny nook that was generously referred to as the ‘Dining Room’ on the apartment building website.

“Everything is here, that I know of. I don’t really know what the fuck they want.”  He was waving his hand at a stack of papers on the table while he rasped his scattered instructions, then pulled the chair out for her, his chivalry clashing so awkwardly with his demeanor that she could only manage to dumbly sit down.

And then she just sat there. She should say something, probably, should explain, but she couldn’t even look at him. _It’s just a scar, Sansa!_ Just a gigantic scar, and burning eyes, and the way his mouth twisted up like her very existence irritated him, hovering over her while she worked.  Or _pretended_ to work.  What was this stuff, anyway?

Oh. Tax forms.  She understood taxes just fine, had been doing her own meagre taxes for years, had even helped Robb and Jon.  And yes, she had basically just showed them how to use TurboTax, but at least she understood _that_ much.  That counted, right?  This here looked like a notice from the IRS asking for more documentation.  Didn’t seem particularly hard.  She could probably help him, it was just... that _scar_ sort of scared the hell out of her _._

Actually, it wasn’t the scar so much as the scowl that frightened her, and once she realized that... well, she hadn’t insisted on living alone just so she could be intimidated by every frowning idiot that crossed her path. This man may bark and growl at her in an unpleasant way, but if she couldn’t handle the bad attitude of a complete stranger then how on earth was she going to make it at Tyrell Inc?  And besides- they were _neighbors,_ and neighbors were supposed to help each other.  So she would do his taxes, if that’s what he wanted, and maybe then he’d be agreeable to controlling his dog.

“Alright, then, Mr...” she glanced at the top page “...Sandor Clegane. It says right here that they want you to send...”

“I know what it says,” he interrupted, quite rudely. “I sent it already.  They sent it back.”

“Well, let’s just go down the list one more time, shall we?” She smiled up at him, _just a scar just a scar just a scar_ , and began rifling through the sheaf of papers.  “They want your charitable donations receipts, those are... here.  Proof of payment of expenses that match your 1098-T.  That’s here. A copy of your W2 from the... Sugar Shack.  Sugar Shack?”  She glanced up at him then, curiosity outweighing fear.  “What’s that, a bakery?”

“Yeah, it’s a bakery,” he drawled sarcastically and rolled his eyes, very very rudely.

“Uh-huh. Ok, well, that’s right here.  And... your statement accepting and acknowledging the changes is here.  Everything looks good to me,” she shrugged.  “But there’s a phone number to call if you have any questi...”

“Yeah, I know, I called it,” he snapped, his raspy staccato interrupting her _again._ “Bunch of idiots.  Wouldn’t tell me a damn thing, told me to get an accountant to figure it out.”

“Were you this pleasant when you called?”

She could tell by his narrowed eyes and stunned silence that he hadn’t expected her to challenge him; she hadn’t really expected to challenge him, either, it just sort of... slipped out. But then his lip curled into the start of a sneer and before he could begin cussing and complaining she got out her phone and called the listed number while he watched in sullen silence.  Three and a half minutes later she had the answer.

“You forgot to sign your statement.”

His mouth dropped wide in surprise, taut tendons twitching horrifically in his damaged cheek, but she would not look away because it was _just a scar, Sansa._

“Those _fuckers,”_ he hissed.  “Why couldn’t they just _say_ that?”

“I think we both know _why.”_ And that was even worse than the _last_ challenge she’d uttered, judging by the fire in his silver eyes, but she’d be a liar if she said she wasn’t pleased she could wipe that sneer right off his _justascarjustascarjustascar_ face.

 “Fine.  Damn.  Waste of money.  How much I gotta pay for one lousy phone call, anyway?”

“Um, well, about that...” but he once again cut her off before she could finish, this time with a finger held up in the universal symbol of ‘ _give me a minute’_ while he fumbled around in his pocket to retrieve his ringing phone.

“Hello,” he shouted by way of greeting, then after a few seconds turned sharply in her direction while she ducked her eyes. “Uh, that’s alright, I don’t really need an accountant anymore.  No, I will _not_ pay your cancellation fee, you shouldn’t have been so fucking late.”

 _The silence is deafening._ She’d read that before and thought it was sheer melodrama; now she understood, though perhaps _the silence is sickening_ would be a more apt description given how her stomach was churning.  She calmed herself by nonchalantly playing with the large floppy ears of the large floppy dog- who at the moment had his head resting contentedly in her lap- and made a particularly big show of lifting his tag up for inspection.  ‘Stranger.’  Huh. _Don’t mind me, just here petting Stranger._

“Wanna tell me who you are?”

Sansa took a deep breath, flashed what she hoped was a dazzling smile... then completely deflated when she met his glaring eyes. He was clearly not at all interested in any type of cordial exchange if his crossed arms and perma-scowl were any indication. 

“I’m your new neighbor,” she stated flatly, no preamble.

“And what are you doing here pretending to be an accountant?”

“I didn’t pretend anything. You told me to look at your forms, I only followed orders.” 

Sansa _always_ followed orders; it was her greatest strength and her biggest weakness.  Obviously, since it led to things like this.  And sure, she had helped the man out, but he probably never expected to have his chatty new neighbor perched happily in his dining room, his personal records spread out before her, his dog snuggled up to her like she was his new mommy... definitely a weakness.

“Why are you here?”

 _Oh, right._ “It’s... um... it’s your dog.  Stranger.  Can you please stop him from barking all night, he’s really loud and I can’t sleep.”

“I should have known...” the man muttered under his breath; they lapsed back into that same sickening silence that stretched on and on for days, _years,_ maybe, or perhaps only seconds. _Felt_ like forever when he finally added-

“He’s lonely.”

“What?”

He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather pull his fingernails out than have this conversation.

“I work all night and he, uh...” His toe worked at an imaginary blemish in the linoleum.  “He gets lonely.”

“You work all night at a _bakery?”_ That didn’t really make any sense, but he gave her a look like she was insane so she forced herself to refocus.“OK, whatever, I just... can you make him stop?  I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t you think if I knew how to make him stop I would?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t care if he’s lonely.”

“He’s my _dog!”_ he growled defensively, as if she’d just accused him of the most depraved form of animal abuse.

“Have you tried sound-proofing?”

“Landlord won’t allow it, though it doesn’t stop the fucker from complaining,” he muttered. “I was thinking of getting one of those bark collar things...”

“No, no, no, don’t do that, those things are inhumane,” she protested looking into the dark brown eyes of her furry new friend. She could never tell him to zap Stranger just cause the dog got lonely.  “I’ll... get some earplugs.  Or _better_ earplugs.” 

 _Or some sort of noise-cancelling helmet,_ she mused sourly to herself.  Well, this had been a bust.  She actually had no idea how he would go about solving this problem, and as long as there was no way to fix it then there was really no point in making him feel bad about it, was there?

“Ah... I gotta get going,” she said, lifting Stranger’s head off her lap and standing. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Clegane.”

“Sandor.”

“Sandor. Yes, right, and Stranger, too.  Nice meeting you both.”

“You too,” he mumbled back, nothing in his tone sounding sincere in any way whatsoever.

Waiting for the elevator in the relative safety of the landing, Sansa couldn’t stop her relieved giggle. “Ah, the start of a beautiful relationship,” she hummed with amusement.  So much for slumber parties and being in each other’s weddings.  To think she’d been hoping for some magical connection, some common ground that would make them instant friends when the truth was as completely opposite as possible.  She didn’t have _anything_ in common with that guy, though the idea of Mr. Sandor Clegane in a bridesmaid dress tempered her disappointment and had her giggly again. _As if._

It wasn’t till the elevator doors closed that she realized she never even told him her name.


	2. Don't get too comfortable

 

_ XxXxX Wednesday XxXxX _

Sansa pushed the pillow down hard over her head, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would make a difference. Geez, it was just as bad as any of the other nights, maybe even worse. 

_Aroooooooooooooooooo............_

“For the love of God, Stranger, have _mercy.”_

She didn’t know why she thought things would be any different just because she’d addressed it with her neighbor. He had specifically said he couldn’t do anything about it; _she_ had specifically said she would learn to deal with it.  And yet a small part of her had clung to the hope that some cosmic magic would solve the problem, that karma would save the day.  She’d been super nice about it and very understanding; didn’t that count for _anything?_

_Ar ar ar arroooooooo......._

Apparently not.

“If you want something done right you have to do it yourself,” she muttered, and soon she was up out of bed, climbing the stairs towards the bellowing sorrow; she wasn’t sleeping anyway, so why not?

 _He’s just lonely,_ she reminded herself. _Nothing can be done about it._

“Stranger?”

Within seconds he was at the door, panting and pawing and whining... it was pitiful.

“No, I can’t come in.” One long low whimper had her giggling.  “No, you can’t come out.  I’m right here, though.  Okay?”

She slumped uncomfortably against the jamb and detected a slight bump that could only be Stranger’s body leaning heavily against the door. When he started whining again she pressed her fingers into the narrow opening underneath and wiggled them so he could see he wasn’t alone; the crying got softer but didn’t cease.

“Hey, wanna hear a story?” she asked, hoping to distract him. “It’s about a girl who moved to the big city all by herself, and she was going to revolutionize the graphic design industry.”  On and on and on she droned, sleepy sentences tumbling out of her, not entirely certain what she was even saying but saying it anyway just to fill the silence. Which he must have liked, because when the story slowed to a stop the whimpering resumed.

“Still here. See?”  She wriggled her fingers under the door again.  “I’m just... really tired, Stranger.  Can we sleep now?” 

Stranger didn’t answer, so Sansa slept.

A toe was working against her hip, unwelcome and unexpected and she flinched violently awake, eyes snapping open to see her neighbor towering over her. Glaring. 

“Do I frighten you, girl?”

Sansa rolled her weary eyes, too tired to point out that nudging her with his foot was not exactly neighborly. But then he hauled her to her feet and she was face-to-scarred-face with that grumpy beast, and she ducked her eyes just as Stranger renewed his crying.

“Shut up,” her neighbor shouted, pounding the door with his fist.

“That’s not very nice,” Sansa admonished sleepily.

He didn’t respond, just gave her one of those angry-surprised looks like when she first met him then hit the elevator button for ‘down.’ They travelled one floor, together, then he stood and waited till she got her door open before finally taking his leave.

“Good ni...” she began, looking up at him, but all she saw was the staircase door slowly drifting closed and _that_ wasn’t exactly neighborly, either.

 

_ XxXxX Thursday XxXxX _

Sansa grew up in a house crowded with bodies, second eldest of five children. More than that, though, was the Stark tendency to take in anyone in search of a home, whether that was a distant cousin or her brother’s best friend or an entire litter of tabby cats.  She had learned early on the importance of quiet time, had craved it, carved it out wherever she could; so when she got a job in a different city she had insisted on getting an apartment _alone._

It had not been the haven she imagined- she’d thought the quiet would be a relief; instead she was almost crushed by it. There was no noise unless she made it, no mess unless she made it, no sign of life at all unless she made it.  She half considered getting a pet, but...

_Aroooooooooooooooooo............_

_That_ always managed to change her mind.

“Stranger?” she called moments later, standing outside the door again, and soon enough they were leaning against each other, warm body against warm body with a cold steel door between.

“This is as good as it gets, buddy,” she told him when his whimpers drifted into the hallway. “You’re just going to have to get used to it.”   

He didn’t cry anymore, fortunately, but after only a few moments Sansa felt compelled to fill the peace and quiet, too much on her mind for sleep. “Creepy old Walder Frey came in again.  He’s so gross, always asks for a hug.” 

Stranger listened in rapt silence while she regaled the empty hallway with the story of her day. It was silly, this connection through steel with an animal who was just as lonely as she was. _Should probably get some real friends one of these days_ , she mused to herself as she drifted off to blessed sleep.

“Up, little bird.”

That was it- his entire greeting before he hauled her to her feet and led her over to the elevator. No _hello._ No _how’s it going_.  No _sorry to bother you._ She supposed she should just be grateful he hadn’t kicked her again, but a little friendly discourse wouldn’t hurt, either.  

Riding the elevator down (together, for some reason) she glanced over at him, trying to think of something to say. She did not- _could_ not- look up at his face and those scars and that _scowl_ , so she looked at his dark grey slacks and crisp white shirt instead.  He looked... sort of nice, actually, even with exhaustion and bad attitude radiating off of him.  Come to think of it, he was similarly dressed the previous evening.  Morning.  Whatever.  But why would he dress up at a bakery?

“What’s the Sugar Shack?”

A sideways glance. “Strip club.”

“You’re a _stripper?”_ He was very well-dressed for a man who got _undressed_ , but he only snorted at her question. 

“A bouncer.”

“At a strip club?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

He had in fact just said that. So he was a bouncer.  At a strip club.  Which meant he worked with strippers.  Naked people.  All the time.  Surrounded by naked people, every night.  He just came back from working with naked people.  Naked women.  Sexy women.  Who were naked.  Why was she suddenly so nervous?

“Good ni...” And he was gone again, turning to leave as soon as she unlocked her door.

“And thank you kindly, good sir,” she muttered sarcastically. What was wrong with that guy?

 

_ XxXxX Friday  XxXxX _

As if falling asleep propped against a door wasn’t bad enough, it was nothing compared to waking up with her neighbor looming over her, always glaring like _she_ was causing _him_ a problem and not the other way around. 

“You shouldn’t be sleeping in the hallway.”

“It’s the only place I _can_ sleep, remember?” she retorted, her grouchiness giving his a run for its money.  It was _his dog_ causing the problem, so what was he giving her hell about?

“How could I forget with you right outside my door?” he asked and soon enough they were on the elevator, together, again. “At least you came up and spoke to me face to face.  No one else has had the balls to do that.”

Sansa bristled. “Balls?  Really?” 

“Does my language offend your delicate senses, _my lady?”_

 _Oh no he didn't._ She turned in the elevator to face him fully and glared with every fiber of her sleepy being.  “Were your previous neighbors men?”

“Yes,” he answered, voice just as growly as usual but... soft. Wary.

“They never said anything to you, a woman finally does, and you think it has something to do with _balls?”_

He narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t respond, so she supposed she won _that_ argument.

“I’m Sansa, by the way,” she said when they reached her door; she offered her hand, but he only glanced at it.

“Right.” And off he went. 

“Good night to you, too,” she said out loud after the staircase door closed.

Climbing into bed didn’t bring the kind of relief it usually did, her thoughts wandering to the massive frustration upstairs. How did she get stuck with a neighbor like _that?_ Profoundly grouchy, unfriendly, unhelpful.  Obviously misogynistic if he worked at a strip club; how could he not be?  Every terrible trait she could imagine wrapped up in one enormous body.

Funny... she hadn’t once thought about his scar.

 

_ XxXxX Saturday  XxXxX _

“Made yourself a little nest, did you?” he asked when her eyes fluttered open.

He was exaggerating. After three nights of this she knew the way it would go, so she’d hauled up a blanket and pillow for her own comfort.  It wasn’t any big deal, and nothing he had any right to complain about.  Not when _he_ got to sleep in a bed.

“You don’t have to walk me down,” she mumbled, stifling a yawn as he followed her onto the elevator.

He ignored her, which was rude; except he was also walking her to her apartment which wasn’t rude? But the only reason she even needed an escort was because of his dog, and that was inconsiderate, except that it was only because his dog was lonely and that wasn’t his fault, and... God, she needed a decent night’s sleep, and trudged towards her door when the elevator opened. 

“You really don’t have to walk with me, I know the way.”

“We’re already here.”

“No, I’m saying you don’t have to do that anymore.”

His irritated glare focused like a laser, she could feel it burning her neck when she slipped the key into the lock. Because he understood her meaning before she did- no matter how stupid and dangerous it was, or how many times he protested, she wasn’t going to stop. 

“Good night,” she yawned and closed the door before he could say anything, enormously pleased that for once _she_ got to walk away from _him_.

 

_ XxXxX Sunday XxXxX _

It was just after noon on Lazy Sunday (her most favorite of all the days), a bowl of kasha with banana on her coffee table, Cutthroat Kitchen reruns on TV, when something came sliding in under her door. That was... weird. 

Several long seconds later Sansa finally wandered over and picked up the unmarked white envelope laying on the floor. The weight of it surprised her, _scared_ her, and her imagination caromed off into tales of envelope bombs and espionage.  Which was ridiculous- literally no one on the planet would have any interest in _bombing_ her, for heaven’s sake.  It was probably just a bill or something, nothing to worry about, so she ripped it open with no further thought, unfolded the page... and smiled at what she found.

_‘Stop sleeping in the hallway.’_

The note was simple, scrawled in the worst handwriting she had ever seen across a half-sheet of lined yellow paper.

And taped to the bottom was a freshly-minted key for apartment 1132-D.


	3. This was a mistake

Tuesday evening found Sansa outside his apartment, eyeing the door, then eyeing her phone.  6:16.  He was probably home.  Most likely home.   Should she knock?  Should she even be there yet?  Was she supposed to wait till he left?  Eh, she’d figure that out later.  Right now they needed to work out the terms of... whatever this was.  This arrangement. 

Mere seconds after knocking the door was yanked open, just like a week ago when she’d met him. At least this time she was prepared for his unwavering scowl and the _look_ he gave her, like she was an irritating puzzle he was trying to figure out.

“You don’t have to knock,” he growled stiffly. “That’s the point of the key.”

“I thought... well, I thought the point was so that I could get in when you weren’t here to answer. When I knock.  Cause... you’re still here.” 

“You don’t have to knock,” he repeated, adding _such a mistake_ as he stalked away and once again she was following him into that dreary apartment, closing the door behind. Already she was regretting it.  Why on earth did she think this was a good idea?  Why did she even want to help this unfriendly, _unneighborly_ man out? 

A reminder came in the form of two heavy paws in her ribcage and a muzzle against her chest, wet nose stretching up towards her face.

“Hi Stranger!” she giggled. “Did you miss me?”

“Down,” a harsh voice commanded and Stranger got down. Killjoy. 

Stranger sat between them, panting, goofy dog smile on his doggie face while the humans awkwardly avoided eye contact and tried to think of something to say. Her neighbor looked vaguely ill, which was about how she felt.

“So uh...” he cleared his throat. “I have Sundays and Mondays off, just so you...”

“I know.”

He looked momentarily startled by her interruption- maybe a little angry, too- but continued without comment.

“You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to, just if he’s making noise one night you can...”

“He makes noise _every_ night.”

His jaw clenched and nostrils flared; definitely angry this time.

 _Oh, do you not like being interrupted, big guy?_ she asked.  Or... _wanted_ to ask.  Didn’t ask.  Instead she bit back a nervous laugh and tried to refocus on the task at hand.

“Do I need to feed him or anything?”

“I already fed him,” he grumbled then turned and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her alone with her new responsibility. That she had practically begged for.  What had she been thinking?  She knew precious little about dogs, had always dealt with cats.  In fact, just about the only thing she knew to do was to feed them, but if that was done...

“Does he need water?” Sansa shouted towards the bedroom. “Or... a bath?”

Mumbled cusswords floated out into the living room and then he was in front of her again, giving her that _look_.

“Okay, stop it,” he said firmly. “I only gave you the key so you could... play with him... or whatever.  So you’d stop sleeping in the hall like some wide-eyed Pollyanna just itching to get murdered.  I don’t expect you to take care of him, he’s not your responsibility.  Got it?”

Sansa swallowed a similarly grouchy response and nodded, trying her best to make his head explode using only her eyes.

“Does he have a leash?”

“Of course he has a leash. Why?”

“Just nice to have the option. To walk him.  If I want to.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with both enormous hands, sighed, then went to the closet by the front door, returning with a leash that he shoved into her outstretched hands.

“Just not at night, okay?”

“He doesn’t like walking at night?” she asked before she could stop herself, but his one raised brow left no doubt of what his true concern was. “Okay.”

“Such a mistake,” he muttered to himself as he lumbered back to his room.

“I’ll walk him whenever I want to, Mr. Bossy McBossy.”

“What?” he shouted.

“Nothing!” she yelled back. Oops.

That guy was such a grump. She had half a mind to leave and never come back, but then Stranger was leaning against her legs and rubbing his head on her and how could she ever turn her back on such overwhelming love?  She knelt on the floor and played with his ears, and he licked her face and nearly pushed her over.

“He’s such a sweet dog,” she sighed when her neighbor appeared again, fastening the clasp of his belt.

“Yeah, he’s alright. He was a wreck when I found him, though.”

“When you _found_ him?” she echoed, looking up sharply.  “You _found_ him?”

His eyes went wide. He took a deep breath and let it out in one long sigh, heaved his eyes heavenward then dropped his face into his hands. 

“Such a mistake... YES, I found him,” he groaned loudly, as if admitting to something shameful she’d just discovered. “A few years ago.  Got home from work and this mutt comes crawling up to me in the pouring rain, mouth taped shut and paws bleeding.  Been stuck with him ever since.”

“Oh my god,” she gasped, horrified. “Who would _do_ such a thing?”

He grimaced and cleared his throat, stuffed his hands in his pocket, rolled his eyes, kicked at the carpet. He sure was being dramatic; she hadn’t seen this level of histrionics since that one time Arya got asked to the prom.

“Uh... well, I’m guessing... it’s just that... he doesn’t like... well, he doesn’t really like men, so...”

Stranger trotted over to his owner and pushed against his legs with his head, tongue lolling out and begging for some affection. Which he gave, reached down and scratched his ears, then gave Sansa a small shrug when he realized she was watching.

Sure seemed as if he liked men just fine.

“I, uh... I gotta go now.”

“Okay,” she nodded, but when he made no move to actually leave she took the hint, scrambled to her feet and walked out to the landing, her furry charge right beside her while his owner locked up.

Sansa hit the button for ‘Down’ then bent over to hook Stranger’s leash onto his collar, fully aware that her neighbor was watching her. Judging her.

“Do you always take the elevator for one floor?”

“I’m wearing _heels,”_ she retorted, rolling her eyes.  Did he have to give her a hard time over _everything?_

His only response was a grunt which she took to mean _‘I never thought of it that way, good point!’_  He nodded at her in some sort of primitive farewell when he took his leave.

“Have a nice day at work!”

She said it loudly, over-cheerful, and as the staircase door closed on his scowl she gave him a radiant smile that no doubt irritated the hell out of him. _Good._

After they got to her apartment she changed quickly, efficiently, because as much as she was annoyed about him telling her what to do she really did not want to be out after dark. Soon enough they were heading towards the stairwell, Stranger eagerly tugging at his leash and leading the way.

“Take the stairs in heels, oh please.” She scoffed at the memory of his unrealistic expectations, then sobered when she realized his coworkers probably _did_ take the stairs in heels.  But his coworkers probably did _lots_ of things in heels that she wouldn’t do, so _there._

“Alright,” she sighed when they finally made it outside. “Let’s walk.”

Work had been especially hard that day. Well, work was especially hard _every_ day, but never in the way she’d anticipated when she first accepted the job.  She’d known Tyrell Inc was fast-paced, had known her chosen profession was cut-throat, had fully expected to work late every single night just to prove she was dedicated and driven.

She had _not_ anticipated the disdain she received from some of her co-workers, the weird hierarchy of power that had nothing to do with the org chart, or the truly ridiculous amounts of nepotism with a side order of misogyny. 

Take today for example, when a coworker had asked her to type something up for him. She offered to show him how to do it himself (she was his coworker, not his secretary) but he’d said ‘nah’ and wandered off.  Sansa had put the file back on Ramsay’s desk, unfinished... and promptly got in trouble with her boss for not being a team player.  And since her boss was also Ramsay’s father, her only option was to meekly apologize and promise to do better in the future. 

It was completely unfair. And she couldn’t do a single thing about it.    

At least she had this ball of bounding black fluff to cheer her up. What started as a walk had turned into a run and his exuberance at being outside was contagious.  She spent most of the time laughing because everything Stranger did, he overdid.  She supposed they had that in common.

Sansa stood in her kitchen, eating carrot sticks and hummus and watching Stranger lap up water as fast as he could. _Such a good boy._ Now that she knew what dark horrors lurked in his past she felt protective of him, and a little surprised at the role her grumpy neighbor played in his rescue.  The more obvious choice would have been to take him to the pound. Fortunately for all of them, he hadn’t.

For a beginning like _that_ , an owner like _that_ , Stranger sure was a good dog- sweet and playful and happy. And aggressively obedient.  He’d roll, sit, beg, play dead, then spring to his feet with an enthusiastic bounce and it was a solid ten minutes of ordering the dog around before she realized he probably wanted a treat.

“Come on, Stranger, let’s go exploring.”

They took the stairs this time, since she was wearing sneakers, and she opened the door like it was perfectly natural for her to be there. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind.  It didn’t count as snooping if she was just looking for treats, right?  Just part of the deal, right?

A dishtowel was wadded up on the counter in the kitchen, and she shook it out and hung it up before beginning her search for treats. She found them in the very first place she looked, a drawer remarkably cluttered for being nearly empty. 

“Snausages,” she sang out, and Stranger frantically ran through every one of his tricks in an effort to earn one. With the dog now properly rewarded and the treats back in the drawer, there really was no reason to be there anymore.  Should probably leave. Probably. Definitely.

Sansa took a long look around his living room, completely unashamed by her curiosity. It was just... their apartments were exactly the same, and yet totally opposite.  Where hers was filled with bright decor and cheery accessories, mirrors to magnify the artificial light, lacy curtains that let in as much natural light as possible, his was... well, it was sparsely decorated, if ‘decorated’ was even the right word for the enormous plaid sofa and the beat-up trunk that served as a coffee table.  Their apartments were completely different; _they_ were completely different.  Just about the only thing they had in common was this dog’s unyielding affection. 

“Remind me next time to bring a bottle of Febreze,” she told Stranger when they left, then laughed at her own mean joke since he didn’t understand it.

 _Scream Queens came_ on at 9pm and they watched it together, his head nestled in her lap while she munched on popcorn, chuffing his agreement with her running commentary.   _Good boy._

10:30 on the dot she climbed into bed, just as always; Stranger gave her a sad look then jumped up on the bed, laying his enormous body against hers.

“Oh, that is not allowed,” she laughed and buried her face in his fur. “That is not allowed at all, no it’s not, it’s weally weally not.”

It was like having a great big teddy bear, warm and snuggly and way too comfortable, and he turned his muzzle against her and let out a grumbly sigh. He was staying put and they both knew it.

“All right, fine, you can stay,” she relented, and tossed the covers over him. “I’ll bet your daddy doesn’t let you sleep in the bed.  He’d probably say I’m spoiling you.  And that is fine by me.” 

The thought of doing something that _Mister Sandor Clegane_ would disapprove of had her feeling heady and rebellious, as did the scowl of disapproval she could almost see when she closed her eyes and fell promptly to sleep.

It was the most glorious eight hours of her entire life. She woke fully rested and contented, and even the added responsibility of taking Stranger out for a quick walk didn’t diminish the new spring in her step, the smile that stretched across her lips and threatened to stay.

Stranger lay in the hallway outside the bathroom, watching her get ready, and every time she walked past he’d show his belly and beg for a tummy rub. When she was finally ready to go, early as always, she took him back upstairs, genuinely sad about leaving.

“Shhhh, you have to be quiet,” she whispered, unlocking the door and pushing it open, then returned the leash to the closet while he trotted into the bedroom; the unmistakable sounds of mattress springs squeaking from additional weight echoed in the otherwise silent apartment.

Huh. Maybe he _did_ get to sleep in the bed. 


	4. Explain it to me slowly

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Cute outfit, Sansa,” Myranda said when she wandered into the breakroom. “It really shows off your assets.”

“It does?”

“Of course. Isn’t that what you were _trying_ to do?”

Sansa looked down at the plain brown shift she’d worn that day, a style she uncharitably thought of as _Missionary chic._ “Not really.”

Now in the fifth week of her job, Myranda and Mya were the only co-workers who ever really talked to her, and while she didn’t always enjoy the topic Myranda chose (sex, usually) she was still glad to have found some friendly faces to chat with. Everyone else ignored her.

“So it’s ladies night down at the Spotted Calf...” Mya began.

“The Spotted Calf?” Myranda interrupted. “Is that a country place?”

“It sure is,” Mya laughed. “And it can get pretty wild on Thursdays.  You in?”

“Of course. Always did want to rope a cowboy.  How about you, Sansa?”

“No, I can’t,” she answered immediately. “Stranger will get confused and we only just now got him on a schedule.”

Sansa chased a tomato around her plate with her fork, not realizing that her friends were staring at her till she finally speared the petulant fruit and glanced up. _Uh oh._

“Who is Stranger?” Mya asked.

“A dog.”

“And who is ‘we’?”

“Just me... and my neighbor.”

“You got a dog with your neighbor?”

“No, it’s _his_ dog, but... he gets lonely.”

“The dog? Or the neighbor?”

“Very funny.”

It was suddenly verrryyy quiet in the break room. Myranda crossed her arms and leaned against the table, eying Sansa with more than a hint of a curiosity. “So... tell us about him.” 

“Oh. He’s really big and growly, and kind of intimidating, but once he warms up to you he’s actually not so bad.”

“I wasn’t talking about the _dog,_ Sansa.”

 _Neither was I_ , she wanted to tell them, but their laughter made her swallow the protest.  It was true, though.  Somehow he wasn’t so bad anymore.

“I’m not understanding this at all,” a voice said behind her. Ygritte from IT.  “How did you wind up sharing a dog with your neighbor?”

Sansa paused, trying to think of the best way to explain. It had never seemed weird to her, going to his apartment, opening his door with the key he made for her, taking his dog... sometimes he would still be there and they would talk, simple little exchanges about their days.  The look he gave her had shifted from irritated confusion to just regular confusion, and her attempts to annoy had gradually become attempts to understand.  It all felt perfectly natural, almost mundane, and sharing Stranger had rapidly become a completely normal part of her life. 

But how to _explain?_

“Well, he works at night and Stranger gets lonely so I watch him till his daddy comes home.”

“His daddy?”

“Uh... yeah, I call him that sometimes.”

“You call him _daddy?”_

“That’s not what I meant!”

“So how does this work, exactly?” someone asked behind her; Ros from Real Estate, who had never said a single word to her before this moment.

“Uh, well, when I get home I go upstairs and get Stranger and then take him for a walk and then we just hang out for a while till bed then in the morning I get ready and he goes back to his place when I go to work.”

“So you’re dating your neighbor’s dog.”

“Better than the last guy _I_ dated,” Loras from Accounting piped up.  Where had he come from?

“So what does he do that he’s gone at nights?”

“Um... he works at a... a strip club.”

“He’s a stripper?”

“No,” she laughed as if the very notion was absurd though she herself had made the same mistake. “He’s a bouncer.”

“A bouncer,” a new voice echoed, and she realized for the first time just how many people were in the break room, all of them hanging on her every word. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Is he cute?” Myranda asked.

“No, not at all,” Sansa answered with a shake of her head.

“Then why are you blushing like that?”

 _Was_ she blushing?  She was certain that she wasn’t.  It just had gotten quite hot in here all of a sudden.

“Because...” she hissed, rising from her seat and giving Myranda what she hoped was a firm look. “This conversation is ridiculous.”

Appetite now thoroughly destroyed, she tossed the remnants of her salad in the trash, certain she would regret that in an hour when her stomach was growling. At the moment, though, she just needed to escape, but her hasty retreat was interrupted when she collided into one of her coworkers.

“Oh, sorry Unella,” she muttered to the head of HR; the woman looked her over with poorly concealed disapproval.

“You look like a trollop.”

_Of course I do._

Sansa hid at her desk the rest of the day. No, not _hid;_ it wasn’t hiding if she was _busy._ And boy was she busy.  One of her newest assignments was to put together a proposal on software upgrades, of which Tyrell Inc was in desperate need.  It was exciting to be a part of such an important task, something that could really make a difference in the company, even if the colleague assigned to work with her never did anything useful.  Ramsay never did anything at all.

When 5:00 finally rolled around she grabbed her purse and headed for the elevator, pushing away the guilty feeling for not staying late. Ramsay left 45 minutes ago, so this was fair, right?  She was still better than _him_ , right?

Except Ramsay had his dad on his side. His boss, and her boss too.  If Sansa wanted to prove she was a valuable employee then she was going to have to be 20x better than anyone else, otherwise they wouldn’t even notice.  She should have worked late like usual, she knew that, and she was cursing herself for her poor choices when she finally slipped her key into the door of apartment 1132-D.

Stranger’s daddy- _Sandor_ \- was in the kitchen, eating standing up over the sink, bachelor-style.

“You’re early.”

“Yeah, I left work on time for a change.” She wandered into the kitchen to put away the new bag of treats she’d bought, slyly slipping the wadded dishtowel off the counter and hanging it up as she cast a surreptitious glance into Sandor’s bowl.  Was that... could that be...

“What are you _eating?”_

“Uh... bread and noodles.”

“And that’s _it?”_

He shrugged. “It’s all I have.”

“But there’s nothing _in_ bread and noodles,” she protested.  Geez, it wasn’t that hard to eat real food, it took the barest amount of effort, but when she yanked his fridge door open she was startled to see that it was completely empty.  Except for beer.  And hot sauce.

“There’s nothing in here!”

“I know that.”

“No mayonnaise. No cheese.  No butter.”

“I know that.”

“Do you have olive oil or peanut butter or anything?”

“No.”

“Sandor! You’re gonna waste away to nothing!”

“OK, mom,” he mumbled sarcastically, stuffing the last of the noodles into his mouth and tossing his bowl into the sink.

Sansa glared at him as he disappeared into his bedroom. He’d basically just eaten _flour_ for dinner, how could a man that size survive on such a horrific diet?  It was ridiculous.  He was a lot older than her (most likely) and should therefore know better but she had much better options in her apartment than he did.

“I’ll be right back, Stranger,” she muttered, then rushed out the door and down the stairs.

It couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes before she was done, flying out of her apartment and slamming the staircase door open just in time to see him on his way down.

“Oh good, I caught you,” she panted, and held out a butterfly-covered paper bag. “Here- it’s a turkey wrap and some apple slices.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then carefully reached a meaty fist out and plucked the bag from her hand. It was thoughtful of her, and he should be grateful, but he just gave her that same hard, baffled look he always did, slowly glanced down at the bag, then back up at her again.

“It’s good for you,” she shrugged, as if that explained everything.

And still he said nothing, just stood there with his car keys in one hand, adorable lunch bag in the other, confusion so obvious even the scars couldn’t hide it.

“Okay, well, I gotta go get Stranger. Have a good day at work!”

She didn’t wait for his response, just climbed the stairs in her heels and everything, and when she opened the door Stranger nearly knocked her over with his enthusiastic greeting.

“I didn’t abandon you, you crazy dog,” she laughed, and soon they were on the elevator and heading to her apartment so she could change.

Another walk that became a run, another dinner where she fed him bits of meat from the table, another evening watching TV with a furry head in her lap. And for once she didn’t think about work at all, but did wonder a few times if those apple slices got eaten before they turned brown. Probably not. He probably got distracted by the strippers. 

“Maybe next time I’ll pack carrot sticks,” she sighed into Stranger’s fur when it was time for bed, and fell asleep smiling.


	5. Trying something new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to The_Immaculate_Bastard, who has been my adviser/therapist as this fic gets more complicated. Cause it is DEFINITELY going to get more complicated, mwahahaha.

* * *

 

Sansa sat in her car in the Whole Foods parking lot and dialed her brother’s number; he answered after the third ring.

“Hey, San! How’s Kings Landing?”

“Good!” she lied. “Very good.  Different.  Exciting!” 

“Yeah? Work going good?”

“Yeah! Well.  Actually, I... I have this problem I could use some advice on.”

“Ok, yeah. Of course.  What’s wrong?”

“I have this coworker who’s been, um... harassing me?”

A truck rumbled by making it impossible to hear for a few seconds, the pause lending weight to her words; when Robb finally answered his voice was laced with concern.

“In what way?”

So she told him- how she was supposed to be working with one Ramsay Bolton on a presentation, but that the jerk spent the whole time alluding to things he wanted to do to her, guessing how she would react to his attention, musing over the kinds of things she would enjoy in bed. They were hard words to say out loud, even more so to her older brother, and by the time she was done she was shaking but... she needed this.  Robb cared for her, and she needed to wrap herself up in his concern like a warm blanket, charge up for the battle ahead. _Tell me what to do, Robb,_ she begged him silently. _Just don’t be angry._ She wouldn’t be able to handle it if he got angry, not when she had her own anger to deal with. 

“I ignored it at first, and then I told him point blank to stop but he won’t and I don’t want to make him mad cause his _dad_ is my boss.  I was gonna go to HR but...” 

“No, don’t go to HR.”

“No?”

“If you go to HR you could get him in trouble.”

 _What?_ “If he talks to his coworkers that way maybe he _should_ get in trouble.”

“Why? It’s not like he’s groping you in the hallway, is he?”

“Well, no, but I don’t see how telling me he wants to whip me with a cat o’nine tails is somehow fair game.”

“Come on, San, listen to yourself. You’re talking about jeopardizing his job for basically acting like an idiot.  Does that sound fair to you?”

“How is it fair that I have to tolerate it?”

“Cause it’s just _words._ Words are nothing to worry about. Look, I know it sounds counterintuitive, but trust me- you don’t want to get a reputation.”

“A reputation?”

“Nobody wants to work with someone who overreacts to every little thing. They’ll call you a trouble-maker if you start causing drama.  It’s no big deal, Sansa, you can handle it.”

 _I shouldn’t have to handle it. It shouldn’t happen._   But Robb had made his opinion clear and it was not at all what she was expecting, and knowing what little she already knew about Tyrell Inc, she probably _would_ get a reputation. _Had_ she overreacted?  Maybe she had. 

“Yeah, okay,” she sighed. “You’re probably right.  How’s Jeyne?”

Her sister-in-law was seven months pregnant with their first child and it was something the entire Stark clan was excited about. It was adorable the way Robb talked about his wife, how excited he was to become a father, and by the time she got off the phone and wandered into Whole Foods she was feeling much, much better.  He _had_ helped her make a decision about work; he'd helped her decide to let it go.  It wasn’t the decision she thought it would be, the _solution_ she hoped it would be, but... it was still a decision.  

She was unpacking her grocery purchases back at the apartment when Sandor appeared in her periphery, wearing sweat pants, a befuddled expression... and nothing else. Jesus. 

“You know it’s only 5:15, right?” he asked after an exaggerated glance at his watch.

“Yeah, I know,” she answered brightly, ignoring his hairy chest and the flipping in her stomach. “I uh... sorta reached my tipping point at work.  Had to get out of there.  Have you eaten?”

“No...?”

“I thought I’d try this recipe I saw on Pinterest. Waddya say?  You Pinterested?”

It was a funny joke, dammit, but he didn’t laugh, didn’t even move.

“Okay...?”

“Why don’t you make sure there’s a place cleared at the table.” _And maybe put a shirt on._

“Alright...?”

Absolutely everything he’d said so far had lifted at the end, a question instead of an answer. It was funny, a little, and she smiled to herself while she set about washing the kale and fresh herbs, digging out dull knives and undersized bowls.  Hopefully he wouldn’t notice that this recipe had no added fat in it, and if she minced up the mushrooms really tiny and mixed them with the ground turkey then maybe he would think it was beef; he seemed like the kind of guy who preferred beef.  

The instructions promised a complete meal in 15 minutes but it was closer to 25 before it was ready. It looked terrific, even if she did say so herself, and she whisked the plates out to the dining room where Sandor was waiting, looking a little awkward though it was his table and his apartment and he therefore had no reason to look so out of place.  At least he was fully clothed now. 

“Ta-da!” she sang, proudly presenting his plate, then sat in the chair next to him. He didn’t say a word- not one comment about how good it smelled, no compliments to the chef- though she supposed she never really expected him to.  Still would have been nice to hear.  Instead he just grabbed his fork and began poking at his plate after one more baffled look in her direction.

“So... what happened at work that made you have to get out of there?”

“Ugh. It’s... nothing, not really.  I sort of overreacted to this coworker who I guess maybe likes me.  Or something.  I don’t even know.”

She expanded on the story a little while he stuffed quinoa into his mouth, seeming very bored and uninterested in what she was saying. But when she mentioned how Ramsay said he wanted to tie her up she could feel a shift in the energy around him. 

“It’s alright now, though,” she insisted. “I talked to my brother and he told me it’s no big deal.  It’s just ‘boys will be boys’ and nothing to worry about.”

“Your brother’s an idiot.”

He said it nonchalantly, a statement of unquestionable fact, and all she could manage to do was gape at him; he didn’t seem to notice, though, since he was too busy examining the baby kale currently clogging the tines of his fork.

“That’s not very nice.”

He shrugged. “It’s true, though.”

 _Was_ it true?  No, it couldn’t be.  Robb was close to her age, worked in a similar corporate environment, and more importantly, he loved her and wanted what was best for her, and if he thought it was no big deal then he was probably right.  Right?  Besides, she had already decided to not worry about it, she didn’t need this outsider who didn’t understand her life, who didn’t even really like her, to get her riled up again. 

For the second time that day, Sansa made a decision to let it go.

“You’re the only person I know who still wears a watch,” she teased when he glanced at his wrist. “All us youngsters use our phones.”

“Yeah, we’re not allowed to have phones at work.”

“That’s weird,” she laughed. “Why not?”

“They don’t want us taking pictures.”

_Oh right. Of all the naked women he works with._

It hit her all at once how incredibly different their professional lives were. When _she_ went to work she used her brain and resented any implication that she was just a piece of meat, but when _he_ went to work that’s all the women were- pieces of meat.  He never looked at her like that’s how he saw her, though, which made her suddenly and inexplicably disappointed.  Maybe he didn’t care about women with brains.  Or maybe she wasn’t as pretty as his coworkers.

She wasn’t sure which explanation bothered her more.

“What do you think?” she asked, nodding towards his plate.

“It’s pretty good, actually. What is it?”

“I’m not telling.”

His hiss of laughter took her by surprise, the first time she’d heard him laugh and... it wasn’t awful. She could get used to it.

“Ah... I gotta get ready,” he mumbled, grabbing his plate and standing. “Thanks for the food.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome... I’ll clean up, ok?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I made the mess, I can clean it up,” she insisted, rolling her eyes.

Sansa took another dainty bite as he left her, alone, to go get ready for work, and even though she didn’t watch him go she could still see the unmitigated bewilderment on his face.

He always looked at her like that- like she confused the hell out of him. She couldn’t say she really even minded it, had grown to sort of like it though she wasn’t sure why.  Of course, she wasn’t really sure why she was going to wash his dishes, either, especially after she’d made him a nice dinner.  And she still needed to take Stranger for a walk...

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Um... Sandor? Are you expecting someone?”

He didn’t answer. So when the knock came again, she went to the door and opened it.

 _Jamais vu-_ Sansa had always loved that term.  Where déjà vu meant experiencing something for the first time with a sensation of experiencing it before, jamais vu was the opposite.  It described the phenomenon of experiencing something familiar but feeling like it was _un_ familiar, a situation where all the pieces were known and still seemed completely _wrong._

That was the feeling she had when she laid eyes on Mya and Myranda, standing in the hallway outside 1132-D.

“What are you doing here?”

“We came by for a friendly visit.”

“How did you even know where I lived?”

“Mya looked at your driver’s license.”

Sansa gasped. “You went through my things?”

“Don’t get all huffy, we just wanted to check out your place.”

“Well, this isn’t my apartment.”

“We know,” Myranda smirked.

“Then why are you...”

Realization hit her like a truck- a gigantic, nosy, over-sexed truck. The _nerve_ of them. 

“This is _very_ inappropriate,” she hissed, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind her.

One very passionate but hushed argument ensued, Sansa insisting they leave at once, that they were embarrassing her, crossing a line, violating her privacy, violating _his_ privacy.  And as maddening as their very presence was, it was only made worse by Myranda’s infuriating grin and Mya’s sly smirk.

And suddenly the door was yanked open and the man in question was standing in the entrance, towering over them and scowling the same way he used to. Myranda gasped and Mya _‘eeped,’_ both reaching for the other and quickly averting their eyes, then huddling together in stunned silence much like the first time Sansa had knocked on this door.

She hoped Sandor didn’t mind too much, because Sansa found it hilarious.

“Who the fuck are you two?”

“Sansa’s co-workers,” Myranda answered after clearing her throat. “You must be Stranger’s daddy.”

Oh for the love of God. Leave it to Myranda to recover so quickly then promptly toss Sansa right under the bus.

“Right.” He looked down at Sansa but didn’t make eye contact. “Gotta get going.  See ya.”

“Yeah, you too,” she mumbled awkwardly at her feet as he stalked past her and towards the stairs.  

“Aren’t you going to kiss him goodbye?” Myranda asked. Loudly.  There was no way he didn’t hear it though he didn’t stop and turn around, thank the heavens for small miracles.

“Well, he’s charming,” Mya said sarcastically after the stairway door closed. “I can see why you want to keep him all for yourself.”

“I’m not trying to keep him for myself, I’m not trying to keep him at _all.”_

“Suuurrrrre,” they said in unison.

“Is there something else I can help you two with before you’re on your way?”

“Yeah. We want to meet Stranger.”

Stranger trotted out onto the landing, more than happy to make some new friends. Sansa swelled with pride as he ran through every one of his tricks, even though she wasn’t the one who had trained him, and her coworkers laughed and cooed appreciatively.  When she finally ordered them to leave they didn’t even argue.  They weren’t bad people, she supposed.  They were just... difficult. 

Sandor had almost no dish soap. Why was that not surprising?  She made a mental note to pick some up the next time she was at the store and filled the sink with a meager-but-effective amount of sudsy water while Stranger licked the plates clean.  Which turned out to be a bad idea cause the quinoa got stuck in the fur around his mouth, making his muzzle look like it was dusted in sprinkles.

“Come here, Stranger,” she called, making herself comfortable on the kitchen floor. Stranger trotted over- he really was a good boy- leaned his enormous body heavily against her, turned his happy dog smile up to her...

... and flinched away when she tugged at the fur around his mouth.

“You’re being a baby,” she told him firmly; that quinoa was super stuck and it was going to take a lot of unpleasant effort to get it all out.  After a few quick pats on the head, she wrapped an arm around his neck to hold him in place and reached for his mouth, and once again he pulled away even more insistent than before.

“Hold still, Stranger,” she commanded. The more she tried to pin him down the more he struggled, his protests going quickly from simple flinching to panicked thrashing, and ending with a growling yelp before he wriggled away and fled the kitchen.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she shouted after him, frustrated.   

Geez, she’d never seen an animal act so bizarre. Usually he was a well-behaved and cheerful dog, did whatever she asked of him, and all she wanted to do was clean him up a little, and here he was flipping out over _nothing_ but...

_‘...this mutt comes crawling up to me in the pouring rain...’_

Oh.

Right.

She forgot. Of course she forgot, it wasn’t as if there were any reminders of his past in the way he acted.  Or the way he looked. 

“Stranger, come back. It’s okay, I won’t touch your mouth.  Come here, boy.”

She did not go after him, just sat and waited for him to come to her, calling to him in her softest voice. It seemed like ages before she managed to coax him into the kitchen and into her arms, slowly inching his way towards her and letting her touch him again.  And just as she promised, she didn’t go anywhere near his mouth, just let him lean into her while she played with his ears.

She sat with him on the kitchen floor and held him till long after the sun went down, thinking about taped muzzles and bleeding paws, about scars and scowls and bad attitudes, traumas you couldn’t see... and traumas you couldn’t ignore.

“I guess it’s pretty hard to get over something like that,” she mused out loud, laying long, reassuring strokes across his back. “Yeah... of course it is.”

_Of course it is.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter because the beginning is sort of ridiculous. I mean, it just seems so ridiculous, right? But. Well. Let's just say it was 'inspired' by real events.


	6. So you had a bad day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is harsh, I know, but I hope you all like it anyway. I admit I'm a bit nervous about it even though there is (spoiler alert) no sex. They both screw up a little (though one of them definitely screws up more than the other) and they have to kind of get through it. 
> 
> Thanks again to The_Immaculate_Bastard for her advice!

======================= 

“What do you think?”

“I think you worked your ass off and they’d be idiots not to listen to you.”

Sansa let out a relieved but pleased laugh. She’d just finished up the final run-through on her presentation and Mya had listened attentively to every word, nodding at appropriate times, eyes focused, rapt.  She was a great practice audience; hopefully the real audience would be just as receptive.   

“When’s this happening?”

“Right now.”

“Well, knock ‘em dead,” Mya smiled, and helped Sansa collect the assorted handouts she would need.

Today was the day. Today she would not just stand there and nod in empty agreement.  Today, _they_ would be agreeing with _her._

And why wouldn’t they? This was a slam-dunk if ever she saw one.  She always knew Tyrell Inc’s tools were antiquated but didn’t realize just how much until she started researching it.  Frankly, she was shocked that a bulldog like Olenna Tyrell would let the company lag behind their competitors in such an egregious fashion, but rumor was the old matriarch was trying to step away from the business.  Her son, Mace, was the CEO and had been for years though everyone knew Olenna did most of his work for him- not because she had to, but because she wanted to- but lately he’d been a lot more ‘hands on’ and Olenna had been mostly absent. 

The Tyrells had packed the family business with actual family members and the building was crawling with them. The only Tyrell who didn’t seem interested was Olenna’s granddaughter Margaery, who had used the family fortune to start her own clothing company.  ‘Gilded Rose’ had been instantly successful and with good reason- the designs were fashionable, flattering, and affordable.  Sansa herself had purchased a few GR originals and was wearing them for her presentation, hoping Olenna would notice she was supporting the family business in _many_ ways, and hoping that would earn her brownie points.  And sure, the shorter-than-average pencil skirt and sleeveless silk blouse with ruffles wasn’t the most obvious choice for a presentation, but if Olenna noticed then it would be worth it.  Of course, that would only work if Olenna was one of the people at the presentation.

She hoped it was Olenna; she liked Olenna.

It was not Olenna. It was Mace, Roose, and Stannis Baratheon, the CFO, chatting in one of the smallest conference rooms while Sansa waited just outside for her alleged partner to show.  Which he eventually did, wandered down the hallway towards her, tails of his dress shirt untucked and tie loosened.

“You look nervous,” he told her. “I can do all the talking if you think you can’t handle it.”

Like hell she would let him pretend he knew anything about this presentation when he hadn’t done a single thing to prepare for it. And it would be just like him to try and take credit for something he had no hand in.

“I’m good,” she answered firmly. “Why don’t you just sit yourself down and let me take care of this?”

“Fine by me,” Ramsay smirked, then let his eyes wander down her body. “I could sit behind you in that little skirt all day.”

Sansa closed her eyes, took a deep breath, counted to ten... by the time she opened them, Ramsay had already taken a seat in the corner of the room. He really was going to sit behind her the whole time.  Of course he was.  And he deserved to take a backseat to her, she knew that, but knowing he was going to be ogling her while she was working...

 _Stop it, Sansa._ This was way too important to let some lazy ass-hat rattle her; she was a strong and confident woman and she could handle _anything._ Including this.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she smiled when she entered the room, and launched effortlessly into her presentation.

It went even better than she thought it would, even better than any of her run-throughs- she was poised and confident, covered all her bases with ease, passed out the cost-benefit analysis and some sample work from their competitors. Her meager audience had accepted her handouts but hardly glanced at them, kept their expressions neutral and unreadable.  No one nodded.  She didn’t let that bother her, though.  They _should_ be skeptical of what she was saying- that was their job- but there was no way they could disagree.

When she finally reached the end, certain she’d addressed every possible objection, she turned the discussion back over to her superiors.

“... and I’ll forward a copy of this presentation to each of you for reference. Are there any questions or concerns I can address right now before we conclude?”

It was the CFO who spoke up, never moving, fingers tented in front of him like they helped him think.

“That’s an awful lot of makeup for a professional environment, Ms. Stark. One might think you were on your way to a disco.”

“She probably _is_ on her way to a disco, Stannis, pretty little thing like her.”  Mace Tyrell smiled at her, no doubt believing he’d just defended her in some way, then turned his attention to her partner.  “Ramsay- good job.  We’ll let you know our decision by end of day Friday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

That was it. The meeting was over.  Sansa could only stand in silence while everyone filed out of the room, then packed up the pieces of her presentation, alone. 

It was spite that kept her at her desk till 6pm, stubbornly trying to prove what a valuable employee she was though no one was there to see her. She didn’t even have any work to do, so why was she even bothering? 

 _Why_ am _I bothering?_ she wondered, finally making it back to the apartment to get Stranger.  She really had worked her ass off on that presentation, but what exactly did she get out of it?  Absolutely nothing.  And it was hard- so very hard- to give so much of herself to a company that didn’t value her, didn’t notice her, didn’t care.  But what other choice did she have?

She wandered into the kitchen just like she always did, checked the bowls of dogfood and water like she always did, hung up the damp dishtowel like she always did. Stranger followed her every step, pushed his head against her legs in a way that usually made her laugh, but she just wasn’t in the mood.

“If only your daddy would learn to hang up his towel,” she grumbled down at the hairy black beast and scratched his ears. Turning to leave she came face to face with the man in question, his sudden presence making her flinch and gasp loudly in surprise. 

She realized her mistake immediately.

“Oh. It’s Monday, isn’t it.”

He was off on Mondays; she didn’t have to come by and get Stranger, but it seemed autopilot had steered her straight here. And she should apologize, probably, and leave immediately, but he was blocking her way and made no move to let her pass.

“Is this how you dressed for work?” he smirked, amused eyes wandering over her much like Ramsay’s had earlier, not nearly as bad yet somehow so much worse. And she could tell he was teasing her, could tell by his expression that it was a comment made in fun, but she just could not handle any more comments.  Not today.  Not from him. 

“Why, how do your _coworkers_ dress?” she drawled angrily. 

His eyes widened momentarily then narrowed into little slits.

“Is that what you’re _aiming_ for?”

“Is that what you’re _implying?”_

His playful expression was gone, replaced with a flash of... something else. He was digging in for a fight.  They both were.

“Think maybe it’s a little too short for a professional setting is all.”

“I’m tall. Sue me.”

“I’m just saying...”

“I know what you’re saying.”

“Well, you don’t have to get all pissy about it,” he snarled. Glared. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m pissy.  You say something offensive and then it’s MY fault when I actually get offended.  Do they teach you that at Dude School?  Do you have some sort of checklist for how to demean women that you pass down from generation to generation?”

“You’re overreacting.”

Laughter hissed out of her, so loud and so bitter, and it felt so good to laugh right in his face.  

“You’re really ticking all the boxes tonight,” she sneered.

“Look- if you want to be taken seriously, you have to dress seriously,” he lectured, and she seriously wanted to kick his ass.

“How would you like me to dress, Sandor? I found these clothes in the _career_ section.” 

“Well, not every girl can wear the same thing.”

“Do you really not hear how _insane_ that sounds?”

“It might be insane, but it’s true,” he rasped angrily, holding up a hand and taking a step backwards, and she’d be a liar if she said his retreat didn’t please her. “You should try to dress less flashy.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ , do you not get that?” she countered.  “I dress plainly, someone complains.  I dress nicely, someone complains.  Too much makeup, too little makeup, too perky, too sloppy, too tight, too loose, too expensive, too cheap.  I just want to do my _job,_ but the only feedback I ever get is on how I look and how, _how_ am I supposed to fix that?  Why should I even _have_ to?” 

She closed her eyes on him and the argument, too humiliated, too _angry_ to cry.  He was still glaring down at her when she opened her eyes again, and the more he glared the more she wanted to fight him.  That was good, right?  That meant she was strong.  Right? 

“I don’t know why I’m even talking about this to a guy with a rotating line-up of tits and ass,” she snapped, waving airily in his direction. “You and your bimbos don’t know a thing about a professional setting.”

“Hey!” he barked. “You don’t _know_ them.”

“I don’t have to _know_ them to know they use their bodies to make money.  Talk about setting women’s lib back 100 years.”

“What do _you_ know about women’s lib?  You’re twelve years old.”

“And a _woman._ I’m busting my ass to be seen as equal, but how am I supposed to do that when other women are shaking their body parts around?

“Supply and demand, sweetheart, they’re just filling a need.”

“Ugh!” she yelled, louder than intended. “That is so gross.  Oh my god, men are _disgusting.”_

“They sure are,” he agreed.  “You gonna blame women for that, too?”

“I can blame them for giving in to it. They should be ashamed of themselves for letting men control them that way.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, some of them hate it, hate every single minute of it, but they’re doing whatever they have to so they can pay their tuition or feed their kids or sleep somewhere safe, and you think that’s something to be ashamed of?”

It was Sansa’s turn to take a step backwards. He was angrier than she’d ever seen him- angry at _her_ \- and more than that, she knew he was right.  She _knew_ what he was saying was true she just... forgot.

 _“Some_ of them like it,” she countered weakly, sounding every bit like a child.

“Some of them like it,” he nodded. “So?  They’re not allowed to like their jobs just because _you_ wouldn’t?  You stand there and complain about how you’re judged all the time then turn right around and do the same damn thing.  You have no right to judge those girls.  None.”

Oh god. He was right.  Because despite their anger, and the way they were shouting at each other, somehow between the two of them they were arguing the same thing- they were all being judged, no matter what they did.  The only way to break the cycle was to just... break the cycle.  Stop insulting, stop fighting, stop _judging._ But being schooled on the finer points of feminism by some grouchy old man was more than a little humiliating and not an argument she was willing to concede. 

“Women,” she corrected him meekly. “They’re women.”

“They’re women,” he agreed and looked away, fight draining out of him just as it was draining out of her.

Truth be told, she wasn’t even really mad at him- she was mad at Ramsay. She was mad at Roose and Stannis and Mace.  She was mad at Robb and her father and every person who had ever told her it was no big deal, not to worry about it.  But she had nowhere to _put_ that anger, and it festered and grew until Sandor opened his big scarred mouth and invited it out. _Those_ men- the ones she worked with, the ones who loved her- should know better, but _this_ man was the one who really got it and that just made no sense to her _at all._

“I was just... teasing,” he huffed, hands stuffed deep in his pocket. “Didn’t mean anything.”

“I know. Just... really bad day.”  She knew he was playing- she knew it the whole time.  An apology would have been better, but then _she_ would have to apologize too, and... uhh...  “I didn’t... I didn’t mean what I said, either.”

He gave her a look like he didn’t believe a word she was saying- which was fair, since she was lying-and she darted her eyes quickly away so he wouldn’t see the truth in them...

And that’s when she spied something familiar on the kitchen counter.

Last Friday she’d brought over some whole-grain gluten-free crackers and organic cheese from grass-fed cows so that he would have something decent to snack on. The box of crackers was noticeably open, but _someone_ had drawn a gigantic frowny face on it, complete with X’ed out eyes and tongue sticking out and before she knew it she was laughing.

“You tried to poison me,” he grumbled with no real trace of animosity.

“They’re good for you!”

“I’d rather starve.”

She started laughing again, louder and gigglier than before, a hand clutching the ruffles on her blouse, and soon he was laughing with her. And it felt _good_ to laugh together, to be happy instead of angry, comfortable instead of bitter.  She only hoped he felt the same. 

“Can I still take Stranger?” she asked after she calmed down. “I need to blow off some steam.”

“How’s Stranger gonna help you blow off steam?”

“We run together. I’m not so scared when he’s with me.”

His eyes went dark with sudden understanding, like it never occurred to him before that a girl- a _woman_ \- might be afraid to run alone. 

“I’ll run with you,” he offered.  Nonchalant.  No big deal.

“You run?” she asked, raising her brow in challenge.

He shrugged. “How hard could it be?”


	7. Do not go gentle

Sandor Clegane was bent at the waist, hands on his knees as he gasped desperately for every painful breath.

“I’m dying.”

“Well at least have the decency to die in the grass,” Sansa laughed. “I’ll never be able to move your body off the sidewalk.”

He groaned. “Dying... and you laugh.”

Another big breath for strength and he was lumbering off into the grass, going to his knees then rolling to his back in one fluid movement, just a regular guy chilling in the park and not dying at all. He did everything like that, she realized, treated everything like it was boring and inconsequential though she knew at this particular moment he was really struggling.

She admittedly had not taken it easy on him. It had taken only a cursory once-over to decide he was all talk:  sneakers clearly chosen for looks, hair hanging loosely, no armband for his phone, couldn’t find his earbuds... this guy was a rookie.  So when he announced that he would try to go slow for _her_ sake she made the tactical decision to wipe the floor with him.  And okay, yeah, maybe she wanted to show off a little bit.  So?  He was practically asking for it. 

Now sitting in the grass beside him, Stranger lounging up against her legs and Sandor on the verge of death, Sansa took a minute to examine him. He had a very nice shape to him, tapered from shoulder to heel like one of those little foosball players.  Or... Ares.  He was obviously fit.  Obviously.  Very fit.  But running was a completely different activity than lifting weights or punching bags or whatever it was he did to stay so incredibly fit.

“Someone like you probably shouldn’t just jump right into running.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know. Cause you’re...” _muscular. brawny.  ripped._   “...heavy.”

He had his arm slung up over his eyes, maybe to relax, maybe because he was embarrassed, maybe because he was still trying to hide his scars from her, all of which only served to make her feel terrible. He looked so very vulnerable, and it was all her fault. _Geez, Sansa, a little smack talk is not a good enough reason to kill the man._ The only positive was that he probably wouldn’t actually die, except he definitely looked a little... pasty. 

“Sandor? When was the last time you ate something?”

“Hush, little bird. I’m trying to die here.”

Well at least he was still joking about it, though he was also apparently hallucinating about birds. That was never a good sign when it happened in cartoons. 

“Stranger, stay,” she ordered, then sprinted away. It couldn’t have taken more than a minute to grab an icy Gatorade from the closest vendor and return, kneeling at his side.

“Here, Sandor, I got you something to drink.”

“Excuse me, miss, can I help?” an unfamiliar voice called, and a man roughly her age landed in the grass on the other side of Sandor’s very fit body.  “Your boyfriend looks distressed.”

“He’s not by boyfriend,” she corrected on instinct. “We were running and he started feeling unwell.”

“It’s alright, now. I’m a doctor.”  His voice was warm, almost gentle, and he showed her a clean white smile framed by perfect little dimples. 

“I think he’s just dehydrated,” she mumbled, twisting the cap off the Gatorade.

“I’m Doctor Harrold Hardyng, by the way,” he grinned, bright blue eyes boring into her as he extended his hand; she really had no choice but to take it.

“Sansa Stark.”

“I think your _friend_ is just dehydrated, Ms. Stark,” he said, nodding in thoughtful agreement at his own words.  “He hasn’t had enough fluids.  Should probably drink something.”

Sandor lifted his arm off his eyes and gave Harrold the same irritated glare he used to give her though the doctor didn’t seem to notice. He still hadn’t sat up, which meant Sansa was still holding the open Gatorade and trying to make small talk with this handsome stranger.

“I would suggest taking it easy in the future,” he continued. “For men of a certain age, physical activity becomes much more difficult if you’re not already used to it.”

Sansa raised a brow at him, unsure if he was really saying what she thought he was saying, but he held up a hand at her like he knew what she was thinking.

“No, I know _you_ exercise,” Harrold smirked.  “I’ve seen you running before, though usually you dress differently.”

Well, that was true- usually she wore a sports bra and not the oversized t-shirt she was wearing now- but she had no idea how to even respond to such a statement. Fortunately a low, menacing growl prevented any answer though Sansa wasn’t sure if it came from Stranger or the man lying in the grass next to him. 

“Your dog is very protective,” Harrold hummed, amused.

“He’s not my dog.”

“Oh?” his eyes went wide, flicking quickly at Sandor then back to Sansa, clearly determined to ignore the other man in this little scenario. “What kind of dog _is_ it?”

“He’s a labradoodle.”

“A _labradoodle?”_ he sneered, nose wrinkled.  “That’s... cute.”

It was not meant to be a compliment, she could tell, and he punctuated the statement by reaching a hand towards Stranger... then yanked it back when the dog snapped at him.

“He doesn’t like men,” Sansa smiled apologetically. “And it’s getting dark, so we should probably get going.”

She offered Sandor a hand but he just scowled at it then lurched to his feet unassisted, surprisingly graceful for such a large man. When she handed him the still-untouched Gatorade and Stranger’s leash he took them both without looking at her.

“Nice meeting you,” she told Harrold, turning to leave. “And thanks for your help, you’ve been very kind.”

“Uh, Ms. Stark...” He grabbed her gently around the arm and pulled her back, and while Sandor continued walking, Harrold started talking.

A special occasion, he said, a chance to dress up in beautiful clothes, to attend the kind of event she usually only read about in magazines. And Harrold was... well, he was very good looking.  And friendly.  And he _had_ tried to help her out when she was nothing more than a stranger.  How could she refuse?

Sandor was standing near the fountain when she caught up to him, doing a very good job of pretending to be totally fine and not at all dying.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoed glancing down at her without actually looking at her and handing her the leash.  Poor guy.  He probably felt ridiculous after his near-death experience.  And it was all her fault.

“I got dehydrated once. Passed out.  When I woke up I had seven stitches in my head.”  He rolled his eyes and looked way off into the distance, hands on his hips, nonchalant.  What was she thinking?  He didn’t need her blatant reassurances, didn’t she know that?  Should probably just... drop it.  Let him save face.  Preserve his ego.

“Of course, I was only six years old at the time.”

He narrowed his eyes in her direction but not directly _at_ her, digesting her words. 

“Which means you have the same stamina as  _me,_ back when I was small and fragile.  No big deal.  Not your fault.”

She flexed her meager muscles at him and yep, that did it- he pressed his lips hard into a line and looked away again, mouth twisting to fight a smile. He was amused by her teasing and really, that was all she could hope for. 

“What’d the good doctor want?” he asked suddenly and her spirits fell.

“He, uh... he asked me out. Some charity ball thing.  I thought that was just something they did on TV, but apparently those really exist.” 

He still hadn’t really looked at her though she was looking pretty hard at him. His t-shirt was sweaty and clung in places, and with his hands on his hips like that he seemed even bigger than usual.  His face was turned away from her, hiding the scars, and he had that same bored expression he’d been using with her lately, even more than the angry or confused one. 

“He seemed pretty nice, right?” she asked, watching his reaction.

“Wasn’t paying attention. Too busy dying.”

“Right.”

“So when’s that supposed to happen?”

“What?”

“The charity ball thing.”

“Oh. Never.  I’m... not interested.”

“You’re not?” he asked, incredulous eyes finally meeting hers. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “I’m just not. _Ooof._ Stranger!”

The dog had clearly had enough of this standing-around-doing-nothing nonsense and bumped her hips to get the ball rolling already, an order she happily obeyed. And soon they were off, running towards the apartment building with Sandor somewhere behind them, hopefully taking it easy, hopefully not dying, hopefully pleased she’d declined the invitation. 

In truth, saying no had been easy. That guy had issues, she could tell, knew it by the way he kept trying to build himself up by tearing Sandor down.  What a loser.  Doctor Hardyng might seem like a catch to some other woman, but she just didn’t have any room for a man like him in her life.

And besides, she couldn’t let Stranger sit in that apartment all by himself. He got lonely.

 

STRANGER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is how I'm imagining Stranger, as a big teddy bear that you would really never imagine Sandor picking. Because Sandor DIDN'T pick him, Stranger picked Sandor :-)


	8. What do your friends think?

It wasn’t till she was hanging up the Halloween-themed potholders she got him that she thought maybe this time she had gone a little overboard. Alright, it wasn’t just the potholders- she also got a matching rug for the kitchen and a candle holder shaped like a pumpkin for his coffee table.  And a wreath for the front door.  Definitely overboard.          

She had no idea what her problem was lately, taking care of this man with whom she had nothing in common. She’d bake him some muffins or wash his dish towels or stock his fridge, all while cursing herself for doing something so _stereotypical,_ for even _wanting_ to do something so stereotypical.  Why did she get so much joy out of vacuuming his living room?  It was ridiculous, and a little embarrassing.   She was always waging a silent war against misogyny and gender-defined roles, yet there she was genuinely happy about sweeping his crumbs off the counter.  ‘ _Don’t get used to it,’_ she’d tell him firmly in her head, humming while she wiped out his microwave. _‘I am more than a maid.’_

He never really commented on it, either, which was a relief- if he had teased her she would have stopped, and she didn’t want to stop though she did often wonder if he minded or if he liked it. And she stayed well away from his personal space, never went in his bathroom or his bedroom, where his bed was, that he slept on, probably on his stomach.  He seemed like a stomach-sleeper.

After their lively ‘debate’ in his kitchen, she’d come to an uncomfortable conclusion: she was intimidated by his coworkers.  She didn’t _want_ to be intimidated by them, but... she was.  She’d tick through all the things that made her a great woman- a strong and smart and confident woman- but eventually she’d wonder how she measured up to the women who took their clothes off for him.  It made her nervous, for reasons she couldn’t quite place.  What if he didn’t even notice women anymore unless they were naked?  What if he’d become completely desensitized to normal relationships?

 _So what if he has?_ a voice popped up in her head. _It’s not like you’re interested in him._

She wasn’t. She couldn’t be.  She wasn’t his type.

_Aroooooooooooooooooo............_

“What the...”

Sansa was painting her toenails with a coat of Wicked Game when the first cry drifted down through the ceiling, pitiful wailing that could only mean Stranger was alone. It was 9pm on a Sunday.  He wasn’t _supposed_ to be alone.  After fifteen solid minutes of ignoring it she finally wandered up the stairs, out of concern for the dog and _not_ curiosity about his master’s whereabouts.

Sansa was painting Stranger’s toenails with a coat of Wicked Game when the unmistakable sound of a slamming door caught her attention followed by stomping and voices from overhead like nothing she’d ever heard before.

“Daddy’s home,” she muttered aloud. Play time was over.

Standing awkwardly on the landing outside 1132-D, she was unsure of how to proceed. Normally she would open the door without knocking; that was the point of the key, he had specifically said so.  But nothing about this was normal.  He wasn’t alone in there, she knew that, and she really shouldn’t interfere if he had a guest.  Or if he had a _date._

She opened the door.

“Sandor?”

A scrape of a chair and what sounded like a stampeding elephant and suddenly he was at the door, blocking her entry and looking a little... panicked.

“Hey, sorry, I know it’s Sunday, but Stranger was crying so...”

“No, no, that’s... fine. I just ran down to the store for...”

He flinched and grimaced when the door was pulled open a little bit more and a man’s face appeared, expression one of unmitigated curiosity. Sandor looked like he wanted to murder somebody but didn’t say a word till that man gave him a skeptical side-eye.

 _“This_ is your little old lady?”

“I never said she was old.”

Sansa’s heart skipped- he was talking about her? To his friend?  A friend who was now craning around Sandor’s massive shoulder to look her up and down?

“I’m Bronn, by the way.” He extended his hand, elbowing Sandor hard in the process.

“Sansa.”

“Are you the one that brought over all the candles?”

“Yes,” she answered hesitantly, then glanced up at Sandor. “You don’t like them?”

“They’re fine.”

“Yeah, they smell real pretty,” Bronn added, then slapped his friend in the arm. “Stop being rude, asshole.  Invite your neighbor in.”

Sandor mumbled something that sounded like _‘I oughta punch you right in the throat’_ but let the door swing open as he stalked away, not quite an invitation but one she accepted anyway. 

“We were just getting started,” Bronn grinned and led her over to the dining room table like he owned the place, then pulled out a chair for her.

“Thank you,” she sat and eyed the mess in front of her- an open bottle of liquor, two mismatched rocks glasses, and dozens of wrappers from the Snickers miniatures she’d brought over since they had peanuts in them and therefore were better for him than the other options.

“How do you take your scotch?” he asked, adding another glass to the table.

“Leave her alone, Bronn.”

Sansa looked past him to where Sandor stood miserably in the kitchen, arms crossed. Why would he say that?  Did he think she wouldn’t like the scotch?  He’d be right, probably, since she’d never even _tried_ scotch, but... ‘leave her alone?’  Did he think she couldn’t _handle_ it?

“I’ll take it however you take it.”

Sandor heaved an exaggerated sigh then lumbered over to the table to take a seat, pouting while Bronn filled her glass with a meager amount of amber colored liquid. Compared to wine it was a conservative pour, but as she took her first dainty sip she began to doubt her ability to ever finish the burning hell-fire scorching her tongue and throat.  God almighty, people just _drank_ this stuff? 

“Ice?” Bronn offered. Smiled.  He wasn’t making fun of her- if anything he just seemed amused by her- but she shook her head at his question, determined to get used to it.  Just have to... go slow.  Tiny sips.  

So it turned out, Bronn’s pregnant wife had got upset with him and kicked him out, and the _reason_ she’d got upset was because she asked him to go get her some tacos and he’d refused.  According to Bronn, this was nothing but a ridiculous overreaction by a hormonal crazy woman who’d lost all sense of reason, and he went on and on and _on_ about it, giving Sansa plenty of time to lap up the poison in her glass.

“She makes it out like I do nothing to take care of her,” he complained, unwrapping another Snickers and popping it into his mouth. “It’s my one day off, why can’t I just relax?”

Sandor hadn’t said a word throughout his friend’s little rant, just drummed his fingers on the table and occasionally took swigs of scotch, looking just as bored as usual. He’d probably heard this very same tantrum already, no wonder he was tired of it.

“Sansa, you’re a girl,” Bronn announced suddenly and unnecessarily. “What do _you_ think?”

“I think you’re out drinking with a friend while your wife is home pregnant with your baby,” she answered, words artlessly tumbling out of her when typically she would measure her response. A snort of laughter from the silent giant momentarily drew her attention; when she turned back to Bronn he’d already deflated.

“Touché.”

“Do you know what you’re having yet?”

“A girl,” he said, and at this his eyes lit up. “No idea how to be a father to a little girl but as long as she’s just like her mom she’ll be alright.  Margie’s smart as hell, and strong, too, doesn’t put up with shit from anyone.  It’s one of the things I love about her.  Never asks for much, not really.  Fuck.  I’ll get her some tacos.  Least I can do.  Dammit.”

Bronn downed the rest of his scotch while Sansa beamed at him- that was the weirdest declaration of love she’d ever heard and somehow so very _sweet._ Sandor finished his scotch as well, then pushed away from the table and disappeared into the bathroom without a word, her eyes trailing after him then staring at the closed door for way too long.  Looking back at Bronn she was surprised to see him watching her, examining her, one brow raised.

“So you just... hang out here and take care of our boy?”

“Who, Stranger? Yeah.  He, uh... he gets pretty lonely, that’s how I got a key.  But I don’t snoop or anything.  I don’t need to be in Sandor’s bedroom or his bathroom, where he takes showers, naked, probably.”

Bronn nodded. “Probably.”

“So how do you and Sandor know each other?”

“We work together.”

“Oh,” she said simply, dumbly, and just like that her good mood was gone. She couldn’t help it, her mind had skipped off to the nameless faceless women who made up such a large portion of his life, danced around him all night, every night, forever and ever till the end of time.

Bronn’s eyes had gone wider than she thought humanly possible, obviously suspicious of... something. He didn’t comment, though; couldn’t have even if he wanted to because Sandor was back and refilling all their glasses.

“What are you two talking about?”

“Work,” Sansa answered quickly, feeling guilty for unnamable reasons.

“What about it?”

“Do you like it?” _Do you like being surrounded by boobs?_

“Like what?”

“Working at a... at the Sugar Shack.” _Does it turn you on? Do you like it?_

“I guess,” he shrugged. “Easy enough.  Pays well.”

“That’s not what she’s asking, you idiot.”

Sandor squinted over at Bronn then back at Sansa. “I don’t get it.  What are you asking?”

“God damn, you’re stupid,” Bronn muttered into his glass.

“Hey, fuck you, asshole.”

Sansa could only giggle as the conversation moved on to something other than pregnant wives and strip clubs, the dynamic between the two men so similar to the way Robb and Jon used to be. They would tease each other and laugh while she watched in scotch-soaked silence, content to just be out and about and part of this cozy little soiree even if she never really said anything.  He was just so different than she was used to seeing him, so relaxed and happy; his hands moved animatedly while he talked and when he laughed it was so loud and so raspy and so something she’d like to hear more of that all she really wanted to do was listen.  And every once in a while his eyes would slide over to her with a warm and glowy look she hoped was all hers though he probably used it a lot considering where he worked. 

It was the last thing she remembered before she was roughly jostled awake, her head on her arm, her arm on the table, her glass upside down in front of her.

“Come on, little bird,” Sandor muttered as he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll walk you down to your apartment.”

“So tired,” Sansa groaned in protest. “You should just carry me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? You’re...” she tapped him lightly on the chest “...ssssturdy.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” she laughed weakly, walking a straight-ish line out to the landing. She wasn’t drunk, she was just tired.  “Won’t Stranger get lonely?”

“Bronn’s got him.”

“Hmmmm. It’s like we’re married and we have kids and we never really get to spend time together because one of us always has to watch the baby but we finally got a babysitter and it’s date night.  Isn’t it?”  OK, maybe a little drunk.

“If you say so. I thought you weren’t interested in dating.”

“Why, cause I said no to Doctor Ronald?”

“Harrold.”

“Whatever. He hit on me while you were _dying._ You don’t think that’s weird?”

“I certainly didn’t appreciate it.”

The elevator was oddly unstable that night and she clung to his arm, Tarzan-style, even though she wasn’t drunk and didn’t need the support she just... she just felt so _warm_ , and silly and spinny and happy and warm and good God but his arm was gigantic, and she squeezed it just a little to make sure it was real but stopped immediately when the elevator doors slid open. 

“I’m glad you’re my neighbor, Sandor,” she burbled happily, dancing in the general direction of her door.

“Uh, yeah... me too.”

“It’s nice how we take care of each other,” she hummed, but the words hit her funny when she said them. It _was_ nice to have someone to take care of, but this little... _thing_... they had going was incredibly one-sided. _Stupidly_ one-sided.  She’d never even noticed.  She flitted around his apartment, trying to take care of whatever needs he’d been neglecting, but what had he done for her? 

Nothing.

“You never do anything for me.”

“What?”

Oops. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  Probably should just not say anything at all.

“I always do things for you. But you never do anything for me.” _So much for not saying anything at all._

He didn’t respond; really, what could he say? Any explanation he offered would probably be mean and not something she wanted to hear, but now that she’d started slipping down this slope she couldn’t stop herself.

“I walk your dog... I make you dinner...  I do your _taxes...”_

“You made a phone call.”

“...and you _let_ me.  Why do you _let_ me?”

“Why would I stop you?”

“I’m not your _maid,”_ she snapped, as if it was _his_ fault she occasionally fluffed his couch cushions just because she wanted to. 

“I have _never_ thought of you as my maid,” he rasped angrily, silver eyes flashing.

“You’ve never thought of me at _all.”_

“Are you fucking kidding me? You force yourself into _my_ life and now you’re mad about it?”

“I’m not mad!”

“You sure _seem_ mad!”

“I’m not mad!” she repeated, louder than before, cause boy was she ever mad. “I was just trying to be nice, you... _ingrate!”_

“Well, _stop!”_

“I don’t _want_ to stop,” she retorted like a fool; she hadn’t meant to say _that_ out loud either.  “Can’t you just... be nice back?”

She didn’t know exactly what kind of response she was expecting from such a request, but she definitely never thought it would be silence. His eyes had gone wide and wouldn’t meet hers, his body turned slightly away like he wanted nothing more than to leave.  It didn’t _seem_ like she was asking for too much but he looked... cornered.  Trapped.

“Never mind.”

“Sansa...”

“No, it’s... fine,” she finished, retreating into the safety of her apartment.  

“You can’t be mad at me about this!” he hollered from the other side of the door.

He didn’t leave, not at first. She watched him through the peep hole as he paced around the landing, muttering cusswords to himself and occasionally throwing his arms up in frustration.  One moment he’d be leaning against the wall, hands on his head and lost in thought; then he’d stride up to her door, raise a fist... then turn and stalk away, back to the wall where he would mutter and glare some more. 

 _Do something,_ she begged him silently, a hand pressed across her mouth. _Anything._   

She could almost see the moment of surrender, the second all the fight drained out of him, still staring at her door. And then he was gone, slamming his way up the staircase and returning to that apartment she’d made into a home though no one had ever asked her to. 

Oh god, what happened? What _happened?_ A few minutes ago she was happy, happier than she’d been in ages, then a lightbulb went off and... her happiness was over something completely false.  Whatever she thought was going on had all been in her head, a gross miscalculation that he was quick to take advantage of. 

Was he just using her the whole time? He’d never asked for any of it, but... if he liked it, if he appreciated it, wouldn’t he have reciprocated?  He soaked up all her efforts, all her attention, and... nothing.  He did NOTHING.  Even when she specifically asked him to.     

“I’m not mad,” she told herself, swiping at tears. “I’m just stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure why I feel so grumbly about this chapter but.... grumble grumble.


	9. Working girl / work it, girl

On Monday Sansa called in sick, lounging in bed till noon. Then she got dressed and went to work, hoping that showing up when no one expected it would earn her brownie points. It didn't. 

On Tuesday when she went to get Stranger she only opened the door to let him out, unwilling to cross the threshold. She could see that the dishtowel was hung up exactly where it was supposed to go and wondered if he had found someone else to take care of his lazy ass.  And wondered why that bothered her.

On Wednesday, Ramsay said _‘hello, you gonna answer me?’_ when she didn’t respond to his question fast enough.  Sansa decided she would join a convent.  By the time she got home, though, the convent was no longer part of the plan, and she spent the evening updating her résumé and looking for jobs, Stranger at her feet.

On Thursday at lunch, Sansa suggested they go out that night to the Spotted Calf. Myranda raised a suspicious brow. 

“Did you and your neighbor’s dog have a tiff?”

“No,” Sansa answered, whinier than she intended but hoping her annoyed tone would tell them not to force the issue. Her friends exchanged unconvinced looks but ultimately agreed to the outing.

Mya insisted they all go together and that she and Myranda would come pick her up, but when they arrived Myranda took one look at her boots and blue jeans and declared the outfit would never do. So the three of them began picking through her closet, swapping out items till none of them was wearing what they started with.  Which was fun- good clean girly fun; she didn’t mind it a bit.

“Hey, San,” Mya said casually. “What was the name of that place your neighbor works at?”

“The Sugar Shack,” Sansa wrinkled her nose. “Gross, right?”

“Totally gross.” Mya wrinkled up her nose in agreement then wandered away just as Myranda shoved her shirt into Sansa’s hands.

“Put that on.”

She did, wriggled into the flimsy little top without a single thought and absently straightened the straps across her otherwise exposed back.

“Does work ever bother you?”

“You mean the blatant sexism?” Myranda asked immediately. “Hell yeah. Not as much as it used to, but yeah, of course.” 

“Why’s it not bother you as much?”

“I think I just kinda got used to it.”

Sansa watched the older woman draw on a thick layer of eyeliner, focused on her own reflection. How could she be so blasé about something so important?  She acted almost as if it didn’t matter.

“It shouldn’t _be_ that way.” 

Myranda sighed and replaced the cap on the eyeliner, then took Sansa by the hands with the same practiced patience her mother used to show her.

“It _shouldn’t_ be that way,” she agreed.  “But it _is_ that way, and it’s sure as hell not gonna change any time soon, not at Tyrell Inc.  And once I realized that... look, by the time I leave that shit-hole I’ll have all the experience I need to work _anywhere_ else.  So that’s how I see it now: as experience, a way to hone my skills so I can be a good employee to some _other_ company.  One that deserves me.  That make sense?” 

It _did_ make sense, but-

“It still sucks.”

“It still sucks,” Myranda conceded, then spun Sansa around to show her how she looked in her revised outfit. “What do you think?”

What did she think? She thought... well, the black pleather skirt, Myranda’s metallic handkerchief top, and Mya’s strappy silver heels were not things she would have picked for herself, but... she thought she looked sexy. Glamorous, even.  And when Mya came to stand beside her she thought the three of them looked hot as hell and something about that seemed very, very _wrong._

“Are you sure this is the right look for a country place?”

“Oh yeah,” Mya nodded. “We’re sure.”

In hindsight she should have noticed all the gigantic flapping red flags; instead she was completely surprised when they pulled into the parking lot of the Sugar Shack.

“I want to go home. _Now.”_

“But we just _got_ here.”

“It’s not funny, you guys.”

They ignored her, just checked their makeup in their respective mirrors like this was no big deal before getting out of the car and soon the door was yanked open and the two of them loomed over her, hands on hips.

“Either you walk in or we drag you in,” Myranda warned her, eyes hard. “Your choice.”

It was not an idle threat- she meant it, Sansa _knew_ she meant it, and the thought of being hauled into that sanctuary of sin while she struggled against it had her out of the car and heading to the entrance with her head held high.  Her friends trailed behind her, presumably so they could continue stabbing her in the back.  Traitors. 

Music greeted them at the door as did a large stranger who checked their IDs, barely batting an eye at the trio of young women slumming it at a strip club. The inside was just as awful as her imagination had made it- loud and dark and... naked.  Even in the dim light she could see topless women wandering around taking drink orders while another woman danced alone on stage, grinding sort of lazily against a pole and looking a bit _over_ it.    

“Ooo, look. There’s a table right in front.”

“Are you out of your minds?” Sansa hissed.

“Oh, lighten up, Sansa,” Mya rolled her eyes. “We’re just goofing off.”

The two of them strolled over to the stage while Sansa slunk into the relative safety of a dark corner at the bar, back turned to the entertainment, head hiding in her hands. If she kept her face covered, stayed in the dark, didn’t draw attention to herself... maybe she could escape with a minimal amount of personal humiliation.  She was strong; she could handle this.   

A knock of glass against wood drew her attention and a drink materialized out of nowhere before her.

“It’s called a Pink Squirrel,” Bronn shouted over the din. “Girls dig it.” 

 _Women,_ she corrected silently, but gave him a grateful smile.  “Thanks.”

He didn’t ask why she was there, didn’t mention Sandor, just gave her a sympathetic half-smirk like he _knew_ and moved easily down the counter to help another customer.

Sansa took a long pull at the straw. Alright, so.... now she had a drink she felt less out-of-place.  She could do this.  Peeking out into the darkness she could see Myranda stuffing dollar bills into a dancer’s G-string while Mya cheered her on; the woman seemed genuinely amused by her friends’ enthusiasm, a wide smile on her face.  For a moment she wondered what it was like for that woman, night after night to never be looked in the eyes, and suddenly it didn’t seem so bad that her friends could be down there making her laugh.  It was fine.  Totally fine.  She would just sit there and mind her own business till Mya and Myranda finished doing whatever it was they were doing and no one ever had to know she was even there. 

Another pull on the straw. The drink was good.  The drink was _very_ good- sweet and creamy like a milkshake, and too soon it was gone, nothing but ice cubes that Sansa poked miserably with her straw.  A quick glance at her phone told her she’d been there 45 minutes already.  May as well get another drink, and she craned her head over the counter to get Bronn’s attention...

... and was immediately accosted by an eye-watering amount of cologne from a man beside her, invading her personal space.

“You need a drink, honey?”

Sansa leaned away. “No, thank you.”

“You sure? I’d be happy to get you one.”

“I can get my own."

“Beautiful girl like you shouldn’t have to buy her own drinks.” The man was average-looking, older than her, and clearly not good at rejection, because he only moved closer and put his hand on her hip.  Sansa shook him off. 

“Not interested.”

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he drawled and snuck a hand back up onto her hip.

“Hands off,” she said firmly, peeling his fingers away and giving him a tight smile.

“Ohhhhh, I get it. You’re into chicks.” 

“Yes, that’s it,” she agreed sarcastically. “The only reason I don’t want you is because I’m gay.”   

“You know what your problem is?”

“The idiot standing next to me?”

“You just haven’t been with the right guy.”

“Don’t think it works that way.”

“How about you give me a chance to straighten you out?” he leaned closer, voice hot and annoying as a sunburn and _right_ against her ear.  

Sansa was not a fighter; never had been. But when he put his hand on her hip _again_ and slid it under her blouse to her belly she reached her limit, and before she knew it she had flung an awkward fist into the man’s leering mug, then used her heel to kick him in the groin to the ground.  And then one more kick for good measure.  Annnnndddd.... one more, cause he deserved it.

“What is _wrong_ with the people in this _city?”_ she yelled down at him, completely unbothered by the stares of other patrons who seemed just as unbothered by her outburst.  The sleaze ball hadn’t even tried to get up, had simply curled into himself in an effort to protect his face and body from any more damage.  Which she was considering giving him, honestly, till an enormous arm wrapped around her and pulled her up and away from curious eyes, carrying her off to a private hallway crowded with supplies. 

_Oh no! No, God, please no, please don’t be..._

“What are you doing here, little bird?”

And that was just _perfect._ As if this night couldn’t get any worse she was suddenly teetering on her heels and slightly disoriented while he moved to stand in front of her, arms crossed.  He was giving her that same irritated scowl he used to give her, back when he first met her and she started sleeping against his door every night.  Back then she was just annoyed by that look but now, now she was just so _angry_ \- angry at her friends for bringing her here, angry at the creep for not listening, angry at Sandor for just standing there looking down his nose at her.  Everyone was conspiring to humiliate her.   

“It wasn’t my idea,” she protested. “I didn’t even know we were coming here, and now I’m stuck until Myranda and Mya are done acting stupid.”

“And you?” he prompted, one judgmental brow raised. “Are _you_ done acting stupid?  I should escort you out, you know that?”

_Worser and worser._

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“So you kicked his ass?”

“Yeah, well, where were _you?_ Is it not part of a bouncer’s job to kick out the creeps?”

“It’s a strip club, we cater to creeps.”

“I’m supposed to let him feel me up cause it’s a strip club?”

 _That_ got his attention.  He must not have known, not have seen, which meant he really hadn’t noticed her till... well, till she kicked that guy’s ass.  His eyes had darkened into something more than irritation, still angry but directed somewhere else, at _someone_ else.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“I already _did_ take care of him,” she huffed and for just a heartbeat he looked angry at her again.  If she made him feel bad with that comment, then... good!  He didn’t get to ride in and save the day like she was a helpless maiden, and he _definitely_ didn’t get to act like she was just part of his job.

It was quieter there in the hallway, and brighter, and she felt so very exposed under his glower. Curses on Myranda for making her wear this top- she couldn’t even wear a bra with the damn thing- and knowing he could see more of her than she was used to showing made her want to run and hide.  But as much as she didn’t want to be standing there, the thought of going back out onto the floor was ten times worse.  She was stuck, and resigned to _being_ stuck; glancing up at him, he looked just as resigned as she felt.

“How’s work?” he asked, voice softer, eyes softer. “Everyone still acting like assholes?” 

“To put it bluntly,” she sighed.

“Too bad you can’t just punch them.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” It _would_ be nice- to tell Ramsay exactly what she thought of him then kick him between the legs.  Knowing Ramsay, though, he’d probably like it.  God, she had to get out of that place.  “I uh... I started sending out résumés...”

“Hound.”

They turned in unison to the source of that voice- a woman in nothing but a red satiny thong, empty drink tray at her side. Sansa flinched in surprise, startled by so much flesh nonchalantly wandering around; Sandor, though, was thoroughly unimpressed.  Almost bored.

“What?”

“Tywin wants you.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

He looked back down at her with the same expression he’d just shown Red Thong and... God, that was almost _insulting._ She’d worn the absolute sexiest outfit she’d ever worn, had felt downright obscene, and he looked at her _exactly_ how he always did.  And why wouldn’t he, when he had far sexier things to look at and even _that_ didn’t impress him? _Be cool, Sansa, just_ be cool.

“Jesus, they just walk around topless the whole time?” she grumbled, the complete opposite of cool.

“You do know how strip clubs work, right?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Yeah, she knew.  She thought about it an unfortunate amount, and the more she thought about it the worse it got.  But she couldn’t _say_ that, so instead she said-

“Hound?”

He nodded. “Sort of a nickname.”

“Oh.”

He had a nickname. A nickname she didn’t even know about, at this job that she didn't understand, with people who knew him better than she ever did.  While she stood there twitchy and out of place he acted like he belonged here, completely comfortable with his surroundings and she knew, then, what that meant:  this was his life, and she didn’t _fit_ in it.  The realization hurt more than she wanted it to. 

“I should... get going,” she said weakly, waving dumbly towards the exit. “In case Stranger misses me.”

Another bored nod and he was leading her on to the floor, escorting her out with one large hand on her back, skin against skin, and she imagined keeping it there, taking it home with her so she wouldn’t ever forget. Mya and Myranda were already standing near the door, seemingly waiting for her instead of the other way around, but before she could reach them he stopped.

“He _does,_ you know,” he rasped into her ear, the sudden closeness making her turn into him.

“Does what?”

“Miss you.”

And with that he walked away, never turning back, just disappeared into the naked bodies and thumping music of a life that she could never be a part of.

“I think this is the first time in a year that I haven’t gone home with someone,” Myranda complained after they were buckled in and on their way.

“You’re going home with _me,”_ Mya countered.

“Doesn’t count, sweetie, you know that. But it was fun.  Won’t be doing it again, ever, but it was fun.  Right, Sansa?”

“Yeah, it was alright.”

She barely registered the look Myranda gave her over her shoulder, or the way Mya smiled at her in the rearview mirror like they didn’t need any explanation. Maybe they understood more than she gave them credit for.  Maybe they had her back after all.

It wasn’t till she was unlocking his door that she allowed herself to think about it, to let the words really sink in; Stranger was absolutely bonkers by then, she had to take him outside for a quick walk just to get him to calm down.

“I know, I know,” she laughed when he bounded into her for the umpteenth time and she knelt to the ground to give him a hug, face in his fur, tears in his fur. “I missed you, too.”


	10. A strong and independent woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everybody. Deep breaths....

* * *

 

“You are a strong and independent woman and you can do this,” Sansa told her reflection.

She didn’t actually _do_ anything, though, just stared glumly into the mirror and drummed her fingers on the table, crippled by... well, by fear, the worst-case scenario playing out repeatedly in her mind though even she had to admit that the imagined outcome- _death_ \- was a bit exaggerated. 

“You are a strong and independent woman and you are being ridiculous.”

 _So_ ridiculous.  And yet there she was, her pride in shambles as she climbed the stairs to 1132-D. 

These were not the circumstances in which she thought she would see him again, standing helplessly on the landing in her pumpkin pajamas, and for a heartbeat she faltered. It was just... things had been so _different_ lately with them keeping their respective distances though she knew, she _knew_ he missed her.  Right?  But she had waited four long days for him to do something, _anything_ , determined not to cave unless he at least made an effort and now... she wasn’t caving.  She was there for a specific purpose and that was reflected in the way she knocked firmly on his door, chin up, shoulders back.

He opened the door slowly, not like he used to with a violent yank and a glower that once upon a time made her shrink away. It was a surprise to see him so guarded, so cautious, not angry or irritated or confused or bored, just... concerned.  

“What’s wrong?”

_Say it, say it now before you lose your nerve._

“There’s a spider in my shower.”

He blinked. “A spider?”

“Yeah, it’s like... the size of my head. It’s huge.  And I can’t... I don’t do spiders.  Just... help?  Please?” 

So much for strong and independent woman. She couldn’t even make eye contact with him, could only follow his implied instructions when he stepped onto the landing and closed his door, motioning for her to lead the way.  Heading down the stairs with him at her back was a lot more comfortable than she would have imagined, as was letting him into her apartment for the very first time ever and soon they were standing in her minuscule bathroom, not awkward at all.

Fine, it was a little awkward.

“It’s up around the shower head, last I saw. What... what are you going to do?”

“Uh... I guess I’ll just grab it and toss it into the toilet.”

“Okay,” she nodded, but when he moved towards the beast she panicked. “No!  God, wait till I’m out in the hallway.”

“It’s _just_ a spider.”

“A spider of _death,”_ she corrected him, all hope of acting sane and rational flying right out the window.

Standing in the hallway alone, hiding her eyes and trying to remember the last time she scrubbed out her toilet and if she put all her feminine products away... she felt like an infant, a tiny and stupid little girl. God, he must think she was the lamest, weakest, dumbest, most pathetic person in the whole wide...

“All done,” he announced, drying freshly-washed hands on his jeans, the sounds of rushing water echoing in the bathroom behind him meant the demon was dead. Probably.

“You sure?” she asked, worriedly peeking around him. “I mean... he’s not gonna climb back up, is he?”

She couldn’t bear the thought of it, believing the problem was solved only to be surprised in the middle of the night by a web across the toilet seat, but when she glanced up at him, hoping for a little reassurance, she instead saw the tight-lipped grimace of a man fighting back laughter.

 _I’m an idiot,_ she lamented to herself and crossed her arms defensively. 

“Does this count?” he asked, his tone light, still amused.

“Count?”

“As doing something nice for you?”

_Oh._

“Well, not if I have to _ask_...” she muttered under her breath, though she knew she was being petty.  He didn’t HAVE to come down here and slay the monster, he only did it to be nice.  “It counts.  Thank you.”

Standing in the hallway, together, she still felt a bit tiny and stupid, if only because she had in fact caved just like she said she wouldn’t. Yeah, he’d done something nice for her, but she had to drag him down here to do it.  She’d done half the work for him, he could do a little more all on his own.  Right?  He didn’t act like he wanted to leave, that was good; but he wasn’t _doing_ anything, either. _Do something,_ she begged silently like she’d done so many times before. _Anything._

“I got you flowers,” he told her, almost like he knew what she was thinking, and it sounded so odd, so _foreign_ , in that harsh and growly voice.

“You did?”

He nodded. “I threw them away.”

 _So I got you more,_ she expected him to say. _They’re upstairs in my fridge._    Red roses, probably, since red would be romantic, but the silence stretched on and on and on with no explanation, no clarification. 

“Is that the whole story?”

“Yeah" he huffed.  "I suppose it is.”

And now it was Sansa grimacing, trying to hide her smile, though he seemed just as amused by his own artless efforts if that almost-bashful look was any indication. He got her flowers.  And threw them away.  The end. 

“Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?” she asked lightly, a bit breathier than intended.

“Is it? I wouldn’t know, I... I don’t really do this.”

“Do what?”

“Nice things. It’s... not what I’m good at.”  It felt like a confession, a _warning_ , and the warm and soft expression of just a moment ago was replaced with a dark one.

“What are you good at?”

“Yelling. Scaring people.  Beating up pricks that deserve it.” 

“I don’t want any of those things,” she countered. She _didn’t_ want any of those things, best he learn that now, but he only shrugged weakly at her assertion.

“I don’t really have anything else to offer.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He felt much closer somehow though she didn’t think either one of them had moved, it was just... something was there, in his words, a message she couldn’t put her finger on, and it seemed everything in her life was shrinking down to this one conversation in the meager hallway outside her bathroom.

“I, uh... I don’t really mind having you around, you know,” he rasped, eyes up and away from her and a toe digging in the carpet.

“Because I clean up after you?”

He gave her a hard look. “You don’t have to do _any_ of those things.”

“But... you _like_ it?” _Do you like_ me? 

It was an easy question, she thought, but he looked like he would rather run away than answer it, hands on his hips and brows wrinkled together, pained expression on his face that he kept turned away from her... he was really struggling, this was worse than that time he almost died in the park.

“The wreath is a little much,” he mumbled at last.

Sansa bit back a laugh- the wreath _was_ a little much.  Not that she would ever admit it.

“I thought the wreath was quite manly,” she insisted instead.

“There’s flowers and ribbons and shit, how is that manly?”

“Tell you what- you eat that entire box of whole-grain gluten-free crackers and you can take the wreath down.”

His shoulders slumped. “The wreath can stay.”

“Sissy,” she teased, and even though his reaction amused her she couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t actually answered her question. She supposed she could reasonably guess that he _did_ like it, probably, that he _did_ appreciate her efforts, maybe, even if he _didn’t_ ever really say so.  Or reciprocate. 

And alright, so he didn’t do nice things, but it wasn’t so much the nice things that she even wanted, it was what the nice things _meant._ Wasn’t that what _she_ meant, every time she fed him, or cleaned for him, or cared for him?  Wasn’t that what she meant when she could be comfortable enough to stand in his kitchen and fight with him, to just relax and not worry that he was judging her?  Wasn’t that what she meant by trusting him with something as silly as a bug in her shower?  She would have let that spider eat her before she asked someone like Ramsay for help, but with Sandor...

 _Hound,_ a voice in her head corrected and she could feel herself deflate at the memory, the moment she realized how little she actually knew him, or his other life.  He must have noticed her sudden chill because he mirrored it in his own stiff posture.

“Anything else I can do for you, little bird?” he asked, all brisk business-as-usual.

“You always call me that.” He _did_ always call her that, always in that easy tone, too, like he was comfortable with her, like they were old friends, though he certainly didn’t look comfortable right _now._

“Yeah, I, uh... I didn’t know your name at first, so...”

And that’s when she saw it, _really_ saw it, the thing she would have seen all along if only she’d been paying attention:  he had no idea what he was doing.  He might be a grown man, a large and heavily-muscled man, but at moments like this he had all the social graces of an eleven-year-old boy.  Even now with his hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other but still with that defiantly-bored look on his face... God, he was _clueless_.  Doing nice things had been so easy for her, it had never crossed her mind that maybe it wasn’t so easy for him.  And if that’s what she was waiting for, some nice gesture that showed he was interested, that he was worth it.... well, what would she do if she never _got_ one?  What did it mean about her if she was willing to let this slip away just because he didn’t do the things that came naturally to her, that she would hold this weakness against him when he’d never judged her for her own? 

Why was she waiting for him anyway?  She could make up her own mind on this, she didn't need him to do it for her.

“We don’t have anything in common,” she warned him in the same way he had warned her.

“No,” he agreed. “We really don’t.”

They really didn’t. And she didn’t know how long she’d be willing to make things easy for him but right at this moment... she could help him out.  Because now that she knew what she wanted it was easy- to close the distance, to take those two little steps and put a hand on his chest, to reach up, so far up, to meet his lips with her own.

It was not the frenzy she always thought it would be with a man like him, a woman like her. It was a kiss that deepened on instinct, arms that wrapped around her, bodies pressed close together but not enough, never enough.

It was the slow climb of his hands up her back, the way every caress had a purpose, every kiss made her feel giggly and stupid, beautiful and beloved. It was feeling so needy, so achingly desperate though it would be impossible to say which one of them wanted it more.  It was dark silver eyes that never left her when she led him to her room and made her think perhaps he’d been wanting her, waiting for her, much longer than she ever realized. 

It was keeping the lights on, keeping their eyes open, neither one pretending maybe this _wouldn’t_ happen.  It was him sitting on the edge of her bed, carefully peeling her pajamas away and kissing every inch of exposed skin, eyes wide and wandering. 

It was how comfortable she felt, stretched out and vulnerable beneath him, the ease with which she could take him hard in her hands and guide him where she wanted him to be. It was the slide of his body over her, palm against palm and fingers curling, a kiss on her forehead, her cheek, her hair. 

It was surprise in how easily their bodies moved together, how seamlessly they combined in a whisper of skin against skin, a push, a sigh.   It was warmth that bloomed and grew with every thrust, every twist of rough fingers in her hair, every breathless way he said her name even as he never stopped kissing her.

It was his lips brushed against hers when he came, breathing her in with a grumbly groan that shuddered down her spine and she closed her eyes and _felt_ , held him tight till he was done and long after just because she couldn’t get enough of him. 

It was _hot._ And if it was wrong that it made her feel strong and sexy to make _him_ feel good then... well, she would have to think on that later.

He was going to fall off the bed lying the way he was, arm slung across her hips and legs bent weirdly behind him, head against her ribcage while she played with his hair. A stomach-sleeper, just as she suspected, and remarkably cuddly.  She hadn’t really moved at all since they finished, had stayed motionless, boneless, even when he retreated to the bathroom; the only effort she could muster was to pull a corner of the blanket over herself but he promptly pushed it aside when he returned.  She hadn’t cared enough to protest. 

That was... well, it wasn’t very smart. They would need to have a conversation about it.  Later.  For now she just wanted to hold him, and not think about what may or may not happen next.  Don’t think about how this was probably a common thing for him, how he whipped that condom out of his wallet like he’d done this before.  How he’d maybe had hundreds of flings considering where he worked.  Or how he’d be back there again tomorrow.  And the next day, and all the days after.  Always with the naked women.  New set of tits every night.  Good God, Sansa, just _chill._ Stop worrying about it.  Stop thinking about it.  Absolutely do not talk about it.

“Sandor?”

“Hmm?”

“How long do you think you’ll work at a... at the Sugar Shack?”

“You got a problem with what I do for a living?”

“No,” she sighed, only a little whiney. “Not what you _do,_ per se.”

“Then wha...” The question ended abruptly, awkwardly.  He knew.  She _knew_ that he knew, could almost hear the neurons firing and connecting inside his head.  “You hate that I work with naked women.”

Sansa groaned.  “I don’t _want_ to hate it.”

“But you do.”

“I _do.”_

“It’s _just_ a job.”

“A job where girls get naked for you,” she grumbled sourly.

“Women. They’re women.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here,” he rasped, annoyingly amused even as he soothed her with a hand against her side. “You want me to tell you I think you’re sexier than my coworkers?”

“Well, no- I want you to like me for more than just physical attraction. It’s true, though, right?”

He pushed up onto an elbow so he could look at her though she refused to meet his eyes, not with that cocky smirk on his face; even his _breathing_ sounded smug, damn him.  “Is that why you’ve been cleaning and cooking for me?  To be more?”

“No... I don’t know, I... I think that was just my way of saying I like you.” She couldn't bear to look at him when she said it, could only manage to nervously play with a piece of his hair. she sighed. “Did you mind terribly?”

“You cleaning up after me? Why would I mind?”

“I’m not your maid, Sandor.”

“I know that,” he answered with the same irritated tone she’d just used. “And I don’t want you thinking I’m using you, so just stop.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

For just a fraction of a second his eyes widened, startled, but that look yielded immediately to one of mild reproach. “You seem very confused.”

“Maybe a little,” she agreed meekly. Maybe a _lot._ “But... you liked it?”

Oh god, he was making that face again, the one where it looked like he wanted to escape, but she was not about to let him off the hook. She wanted an answer, _needed_ an answer, but she wasn’t prepared for the way her breath left her when he finally said-

“I just liked knowing you were there.”

It was just about the nicest thing he could have said, especially for a man who didn’t know _how_ to say nice things; she understood it, too, because she just liked _being_ there, being a part of him in whatever way he’d allow.  She smiled warmly at him, wanting him to know she was pleased with his answer, but his eyes were suddenly _so serious,_ features stiff and unreadable. 

“What?”

“Job’s not going anywhere,” he told her, _warned_ her. 

She wanted to ask for more, wanted him to tell her that he was thinking of quitting anyway, wanted him to reassure her again that it really was just a job.  It didn’t matter, though, did it?  She didn’t like his job, but she liked _him;_ it might be a deal breaker someday, but right now... it wasn’t.  

Besides, her anxiety about it was all in her head, she _knew_ that; he hadn’t done _anything_ to warrant her concern other than work at a job she didn’t like, didn’t understand.  Maybe with time her insecurities would fade, maybe just talking about them would make her feel better.  And maybe not.  All she knew for certain was that she was willing to wait and find out.

She answered him with a kiss, happy to just be here in the moment with him, in bed with him, his lips soft against hers, callused thumb brushing against her cheekbone and...

_Aroooooooooooooooooo............_

“Oh, fucking hell, _that’s_ what he sounds like?”

“You didn’t know?”

“My ears are bleeding.”

“Welcome to my world.”

_Ar ar ar arroooooooo......._

Sandor grabbed a pillow and forced it over his head while Sansa erupted in laughter, a riot of giggles that still couldn’t drown out the wailing sorrow from 1132-D. He really was impossible to ignore.

“I have earplugs,” she offered, lifting the edge of the pillow so he could hear her.

“No. I should... get back to him.”

She nodded lazily, rolled away as he climbed out of her bed, watched him as he pulled his jeans back on, grabbed his shirt, cast a sort of sad look back at her and... wait, was he _leaving_ leaving?  Now?  Hadn’t they _just_ talked about this?

“Or... you know... you could just bring him back here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, brow raised and tone hopeful and all of him so very very _clueless_ she could only nod at his question, too afraid she’d laugh if she dared open her mouth. 

One quick but electric kiss later and he was gone leaving shoes and shirt behind, a good-faith gesture that meant he would be back soon. Good.  For the first time since she’d moved to this horrid city it felt like something was going right and there was no way she was going to let him leave her apartment without making it clear that he was welcome to come back, that she _wanted_ him to come back.  He could stay here as long as he liked, him _and_ his dog; they were _neighbors,_ after all, and neighbors were supposed to help each other out, swap recipes and have slumber parties and stuff. 

And besides- she didn’t want Stranger up there in that apartment without her. He got lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously I had to get a few things off my chest, lol. Now that's done I feel much better. I know it's been quite the little man-hater of a fic, I don't hate men, I swear! Sansa just happened to meet every horrid man in town, but she met a few good ones, too. 
> 
> Thanks to The_Immaculate_Bastard for her patience and guidance, this fic was not really an easy one and she helped me keep my focus and clarify a few points.  
> Thanks to pinkolifant and SnowWhiteKnight who listened when I needed to talk about this fic (or anything else)  
> Thanks to Jillypups for previewing the smut (smut-lite), it's not her fault if it's terrible!  
> Thanks to my Noodle Sisters (you know who you are) your support means more than I could ever say  
> Thanks to vanillacoconuts's mum for giving birth to her
> 
> And many many thanks to all of you, I appreciate every comment, kudo, and hit!


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